Gap Year Adventures
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: Going with the muse. Two recently graduated Assassins decide to take a Gap Year and tour the Klatchian/Howondalandian continent. Letters are sent back to Ankh-Morpork recording their progress. We begin in a place on the Circle Sea that may be suspiciously reminiscent of a certain Earth nation. But taken Up To Eleven. To be continued as two friends leave memories. And mayhem.
1. Arrival in Cenotia

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean area may or may not be getting the treatment here. Readers of a nationality/ethnicity who suspect it's their turn in this story are free to message me with clarifications, corrections and criticism. Thank you! Slight edit after beta-reading.  
**_

 _ **Prologue: one significant and eventful night in July in Ankh-Morpork.**_

 _ **EDIT: Slight messing around to get the chronology and story line in synch with itself. I got to Chapter 18 and realised I was running into a contradiction that needed fixing. It's a small thing but a possibly serious one if anyone else notices. This is the timeline fix. It also gives me a chance to check for grammar and typos and tweak where tweaking is feasible.  
**_

"Looks like he's not made it." said Trudie van Stjilen. There was a _"well, what could you expect"_ air to her voice. The rest of the small, and they realised, _élite_ , group of newly-minted Assassins, whose numbers had been slowly augmented throughout the night, nodded assent. They were the five people still standing out of the eight students from Rimwards Howondaland, themselves the cream of nearly two hundred who had applied for Assassins' School places, who had arrived as eleven-year-old pupils. Seven long years ago.

"He was an idiot." Susannah Daniels said. She looked down, with disbelief, at the pink slip, small, flimsy and seemingly insignificant, but proof of her new status. There were five on the table now. Alongside the bottle and six glasses. One would now not be filled. Two others of the original eight had fallen by the wayside and not even got as far as the Final Run.

"We should still drink to him." Mariella Smith-Rhodes said. She picked up the bottle and there was the satisfying crunching sound, a series of fast crackling snaps, of the metal seal being broken. "He arrived with us, and idiot though he was, he survived till tonight."

She twisted off the cap and started filling glasses. Mariella hesitated on the sixth, and left it empty. The filled glasses were passed out. Then, feeling like a perfect idiot for doing so, but accepting some things are mandated, she turned to the orange, white and blue flag pinned to the wall. Then began the song. The verse began slowly, almost soberly and reflectively, then swelled to the chorus.

" _Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde,  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier!  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde,  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur!"_ **(1)**

Five voices took up the anthem, unsteadily at first, saluting the flag, their voices growing with each line.

"Let's not do the second verse." Susannah said, drily. "I doubt any of us could sing it without the hymn book, anyway."

 _"Ag_ , you're a Caarpie. speak for yourself." Trudie said, meaning _"You are Rimwards Howondalandian like us, but your first language isn't Vondalaans and this isn't really your hymn. But we appreciate you joining in."_

Mariella nodded assent. It was a sort of necessary duty, to the Homeland that had sponsored their education, and also to commemorate an absent friend. Well. Absent _person_ , anyway.

"To Horst Lensen, presumed dead, and a perfect bloody idiot." she said.

"Horst Lensen." the others chorused. They silently remembered the perfect bloody idiot.

Then the five got on to discussing ideas for what they were actually going to _do_ now they'd graduated from the Assassins' School.

* * *

"I knew you'd both greduate." Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes said. "Elthough I cennot sey I was not concerned. On the night of your Final Run."

Mariella and her school-long best friend, Rivka ben-Divorah, were guests in the home of Mariella's older sister, a Guild graduate and educator at the School. In deference to Rivka, the conversation was in the common tongue of Morporkian rather than their native _Vondalaans_.

Johanna handed drinks out. There was a clinking of glasses.

"So. You are both Essessins now. Whet next?"

Mariella looked deferential for a moment. Then she said "Well, the first thing is to esk when you'll sign the money over. Thet eighteen end a helf thousand dollars. Plus all the other money you confiscated… _took into trust_. With compound interest."

Johanna frowned for a moment, then laughed.

"Less the expenses of all the equipment you needed for the Bleck." she said. "You didn't think I was peying for thet out of my own pocket, did you?"

Eventually bank statements were provided and scrutinised and a final figure agreed on.

It still came to more than eighteen and a half thousand. A lot more.

Then Mariella explained why she'd appreciate access to the cash her sister had been holding in trust for her.

"We're taking a gap year, Johanna. We want to travel. We had this idea of travelling through Howondaland. The whole continent. Start at the Klatchian end and go all the way Rimwards from Al-Gebra to Caarp Town. Spend time with Rivka's people in Cenotia, and at the other end drop in on Uncle Charles in Caarp Town."

Johanna nodded approvingly.

"Keep me informed. It sounds like a fun adventure." Johanna sighed. "I wish I'd been able to do something like that after I graduated. I envy you both. Mariella, be sure not to advertise too openly you have returned Home. Or they'll sign you up for National Service. And beware of Uncle Charles. Count your fingers after shaking hands with him. And don't sign any contracts to work for him, until an army of lawyers have vetted them for loopholes."

Mariella winced. National Service had been the pineapple in the fruit basket of returning Home. And Home grew a _lot_ of pineapples. **(2)** Each of the five graduates had expressed resignation to the fact this was something they'd all have to confront, and there was no getting past it. But Mariella was determined to take her time getting Home and to enjoy herself on the journey there. _Seeing the elephant_ , it was called in Morporkian. Well, there was no shortage of elephants in Howondaland. Elephant visibility would not be a problem. At all. Mariella smiled, and went to sit with her niece Bekki, who appeared to be appalled by the dawning realisation Auntie Mariella was going to leave her life. It was time to be a loving, caring, _tannie_ and assure her favourite niece of all the good things that would shortly start arriving in parcels from overseas.

* * *

 _ **And so we begin in**_

 _ **August, the same year:**_

Hi, Johanna!

Just a brief note to say we've arrived safely. As you can see from the postcards, we're in Cenotia on the other side of the Circle Sea. That's just widdershins round the coast from Ephebe and Tsort and not far from Omnia. Too close to Omnia, according to Rivka's people, who don't like the Omnians at all, even so long after Brutha and the Reformation.

Cenotia is a strange country. At the same time, it manages to be one of the oldest countries on the Disc – and one of the newest. If it were a person, it would have a head like that beggar Altogether Andrews. Doctors specialising in the inside of the head study Andrews, who seems to have seven or eight persons in there, who all fight to control the one body. Here in this country – well, Rivka tells me where there are two Cenotians, there will be three arguments. At least three. It is the same kind of place, Altogether Andrews as a whole country.

There is the old Cenotia, here for thousands of years with its history all around us. Even the Omnians, normally so quick to obliterate places they saw as blasphemous and unholy, left this evidence alone. It is perhaps because Cenotians also worship Om, even though they are careful not to speak his name and even in writing refer to "The Most High G-d -m" if they have to. Places holy to Cenotians are also sacred to Omnians.

Then came the wars, and many, many, Cenotians fled or were expelled by the Omnians. They spread all over the Disc. The ones who remained fled to the mountains and held down twenty times their own numbers in Divine Legionnaries. This perhaps explains Rivka. She is a descendant of these fighting Cenotians. After the Cenobiarch Brutha and the reforms, those Cenotians in diaspora began to return Home and sought to rebuild their nation. They brought with them the attitudes and patterns of thought of their nations of birth, Hence the continual tension between Old and New here.

But I'm writing as if this was an essay in History for Miss Band or in Comparative Religion for Canon Clement. I am not in school any more, and you must mark too much schoolwork!

We are in the nearest thing New Cenotia has to a capital city, called Tel Ari. Rivka's family are very kind to me and treat me as if I am a good influence on their daughter, and they are treating me as part of their family. Her mother can't do enough for me and is always attentive to my needs and welfare. Although I am coming to believe there can be too much chicken soup and matzos, as well as what was initially a most agreeably-tasting pickled herring called _gefiltefisch_. Brisket of beef features heavily on the menu also. Humous, tabeleh and fresh flatbread are always good, however.

There is a little tension between Rivka and her mother and father. Her mother, and her grandmothers for that, are of the opinion that now her education is over and she has graduated, it's time for her to think of the future and find a husband. And have children. Then Rivka's mother and grandmothers, and her aunts, and her married sisters, and Mrs Ginsberg from down the street, fell into argument amongst themselves concerning suitable candidates to become the husband. I lost count after thirteen. There was talk about employing somebody called a _Yenta_ to make the decision for the family. Rivka looked at me and for the first time I saw her look worried. This is a new thing.

"Let's get out of here." Rivka said. We got out of there and found a pavement café. Tel Ari is not short of pleasant pavement cafés. Apparently Cenotians returning from Quirm brought the concept with them. Rivka's brother Avvi, a pleasant fellow and with a good dry sense of humour, joined us. I like him, although he has more than an air of Dibbler about him and as you warn me about others, I would count my fingers after shaking hands with him as well as making sure any rings I wore were still there. He warned us that the long-list of potential brothers-in-law was twenty-three names long when he left the house and had expanded to include Mr Ratner the jeweller, who is apparently seventy-one but a surefire bet for a good inheritance, when sooner rather than later Rivka would become a widow looking for her next husband.

"We've got to get out of here." Rivka said. Somehow I think she meant further away than a pavement café on the Camel Market.

"I have an idea." Avvi said. He explained. We may do this. At a late-opening market stall, I haggled for the enclosed, which is a gift for Bekki. It is a _dreidel_ spinning top. Apparently the letter of the Cenotine alphabet inscribed on each face has religious significance and serves to focus the Believer on different aspects of "-m, The Most High G-d". Rivka thinks they originally stood for things like "double", "quits", "half your stake" and "evens". There is a short booklet enclosed on its history and meanings. Ponder may be interested in the chapter on possible magical uses of the dreidel in spellcasting and prophecy. Bekki would perhaps appreciate the bright colours of the spinning top. **(3)**

With love for now

Your sister

Mariella

* * *

 _ **Later in August**_

Dear Johanna.

Thank you for your letter! Also, please thank Uncle Pieter for his kindness in setting up the arrangement that means I can draw on my cash, if no affiliate branch of the Royal Bank is conveniently nearby, via the Embassy or Consulate in the city I am in. This makes things wonderfully simple, especially on a Saturday on Cenotia where nothing is open. On the Sabbath here, an Octeday in Llamedos would appear to be a hive of activity, bustle and human activity by comparison.

I am sorry to hear about Bekki and the dreidel. It is interesting to consider that my niece may grow up to be a fully-fledged Witch. It does appear from what you say that she has a magical streak in her. So she spun the dreidel, then with Ponder's assistance sounded the Cenotian letter on each side as they fell uppermost, then spoke all the letters in the order in which they appeared, and then a small and very confused-looking _dybbuk_ materialised in the room? It is perhaps lucky that Ponder was able to cast a containing octogram around the spirit and that it was benevolently disposed towards Bekki, having been called into existence by a nearly five-year-old girl. I do understand that you were not amused, and I do assure you I had little knowledge this could happen, and was not intending this. I hope the dybbuk is happy in his new home at the Thaumatalogical Park and will be a useful familiar to the Emeritus Professor of Cenotian Studies.

If you remember the fifteen thousand dollars we each won as our share of a contract completion five years ago. You were kind enough to invest mine and to release it to me when I graduated, thank you. Rivka's parents were set in administration of her fifteen thousand, as part of her bat-mitzvah trust fund. It is still there and shrewd investment has augmented it. She saw the accounts and bank statements. The problem was when she asked for it to be released to her, her parents are making difficulties and telling her she will get it – when she gets married. Her mother, I think, is employing this as a weapon, telling her it will pay for a house and endow a household and act as dowry to attract _a really suitable_ husband, and as such it isn't to be squandered _now_. Besides, raising her grandchildren will not come cheap, does she think the costs of supporting children come to you out of thin air, my life already, are you trying to break your poor mother's heart?

Then Rivka's mother attempted to draw me in to the debate, asking, Mariella, a pretty girl like you must not be short of admirers, I found your mother to be a very pleasant lady when we met and she wishes only the best for you just as I wish only the best for Rivka, _much though she does not appreciate it_ , _but gevalt, a mother's place is in the wrong, who am I when my daughter knows best what is right for her and scorns her own mother's advice? i'm only her mother, so what should I know?_ I was stuck for words. What do you say? I was thinking how so many words used by Cenotines are oddly familiar to we who speak Vondalaans, how she talked about " _Aroysgevorfene gelt"_ for wasting money and being a reckless spendthrift and that there must be a common root somewhere **(4)** But all I could think of was to think of the adolescent infatuation I had on Rupert Mericet (There! I admit it! I know this alarmed you, but nothing came of it, as you would expect), and how I sometimes daydreamed of being, I suppose, Mrs Mericet. So I built on this to ease the situation and prevent a real argument from developing, and Rivka's mother was indulgent and asked many questions, and I built a picture of Rupert's personal qualities, good looks and strength of character that I know **he** would have found embarrassing to listen to, and Rivka's mother turned and said "Do you _see,_ Rivka? Oi vey, your friend Mariella has a good man waiting for her, and **she** knows how to be dutiful to a mother who wants nothing more than to see her happily married!"

Perhaps I over-egged this particular pudding, as Rivka was grumpy when we went to bed and was meaningfully calling me "Mrs Mericet". I do not believe she is likening me to Miss Sanderson-Reeves. Incidentally, is she any nearer to marrying the older Mr Mericet? Everyone thought this is bound to happen one day. They are made for each other. Possibly by a craftsman with an interestingly warped mind and access to some very strange crafting tools, but still made for each other.

In the morning, it was agreed that Rivka will be paid a small and grudging monthly allowance from her trust fund, but this is conditional on her marrying and settling down. Rivka agreed to this, as possibly the best deal she can get at the moment. Later, she said to me that as she does intend to marry somebody, sometime, just that he hasn't turned up yet, she isn't lying to them. It just might not be for at least ten years yet.

Oh, I have discovered what it is to be a " _shobbosgoy_ ". It means that on the Sabbath Saturday, a day where the G-d mandates rest and ease from labour, Cenotines cannot even make a hot cup of tea. As one of the Peoples of the Nations, a stranger resident in the Land, I can. Being a shobbosgoy means that while I cook and prepare hot meals for the household, Rivka gets to sit in the kitchen and her religion means she can drink as many cups of hot tea and coffee as I can make. I do not mind doing this as it is a way of repaying the kindnesses and hospitality they have shown me, and it is something to actually DO on a Saturday before nightfall. On my first Sabbath I cooked _bobotie en vleiss_ , as Mother showed us all. Rivka said this is alright, so long as I use no pork and no milk-based sauce. So they got a sort of _bobotie_. By the way, there are _no_ pork butchers in this country. This may sound a small thing, but I will never take bacon for granted again. How I long for a bacon sandwich in a country where such things cannot be had, for love nor money. The same applies to prawns. Apparently some Fourecksians were arrested on the beach for offences against public order, in that they had a beach barbecue with locally caught produce. This caused strife, as my Fourecksian friends would say. Cenotia is a coast where prawns may safely swim. And lobsters. And whelks and mussels.

On Sabbath I attend Temple with my hosts. There are no obvious non-Cenotine temples or churches in this country (although there is a chapel to Offler and Io at the Embassy). We of the Nations get to sit upstairs with the women and children and have to keep our heads covered. Fortunately the service has lots of _alleleuiah_ and _amen_ in it as familiar anchor points, and you can sing along with those. Rivka's mother must have been talking to the priest, or else the women of the congregation were talking at him, as his sermon was to do with the advisability of a young woman marrying and having lots of children for the glory of G-d and Cenotia. He expounded on this topic at great length. Everybody looked at Rivka. Afterwards many men introduced themselves to her and some offers of marriage were made. She politely declined them.

No offers of marriage were made to me, although the priest said, in a roundabout way, that his religion is more flexible than people think, Cenotia welcomes sincere immigrants, and anyone sincerely wishing to convert to Cenotianism is always considered. A girl of another religion or etrhnicity who marries a Cenotian boy, a young fellow in a decent well-paid profession, for instance, is always encouraged to convert. (Hmmm!) People also asked me about the political situation, and about Rimwards Howondaland. I know this is complicated but can be summed up thus:

Cenotia has fought several wars since gaining independence from the dissolved Omnian Empire. The Klatchians believe Cenotia is properly part of their Empire, and tried to conquer it once the Omnians moved out. The Cenotians boast that so far, they've fought a Seven-Day War, a Six-Day War, and a Five-Day War with Klatch. And that next time, having had practice, they can get it down to _four_ days. The Klatchians still assert a territorial claim, but are currently very reluctant to pursued it by military means.

Meanwhile, hard-line Cenotian religious believers point to the fact that in the days of their Holy Books, the greatest extent of the Cenotian kingdom made the country four or five times larger than it is today, and extended to the River Djel, taking in all of modern Omnia, large parts of Tsort and much of Widdershins Djelibeybi. They argue that what was once theirs can, by the grace of the G-d, be theirs again by divine authority. The Omnians, under their current Cenobiarch, are understandably nervous and try to get on with their neighbour, pointing out they share a language, a heritage, and many shared holy texts and beliefs. The party wanting an all-out Greater Cenotia is small, but loud. There are also people in the Omnian continuity who are, perhaps, over-compensating for centuries of anti-Cenotic behaviour, and consider the Cenotians to be the chosen Older People of the God Om, and therefore anything and everything they do is right and Godly in the eyes of the Lord Om. I see, perhaps, a guilt complex here. **(5)**

I am asked about Ankh-Morpork because people want to know even the smallest scrap of information concerning Lord Vetinari's inclinations towards this region. Apparently the Guild of Assassins is considered to know these things. Maybe it is, at Dark Council level, but I doubt they'd tell **me**. I was still at school two or three months ago. And I doubt they tell _you_. You aren't on the Dark Council. (There was a rumour you're in line for a vacant chair when one of the older ones "retires"? Or else, Miss Band will be elevated?)

And because Rimwards Howondaland is seen as a friend and an ally, probably with reason, they are interested in me and in our country. Their army is equipped with weapons we make or sell on, after all. According to Cousin James at the Embassy in Tel Ari, we have "military advisors" working with their army. Cousin James says hello to Cousin Julian, by the way. And also to you. It is comforting to know there is another Smith-Rhodes in this place, although compared to Cousin Julian, his brother Cousin James is a dolt. A _nebbish,_ as they say here. A pleasant dolt, but a dolt all the same, even if he is Family.

I believe, based on Political Science teaching from Lady T'Malia, that we (that is, Ankh-Morpork) are indirectly sponsoring Cenotia to make life difficult for Klatch. But because of the risk of worsening relations with Klatch, we (that is, Ankh-Morpork) cannot be seen to be doing this directly. So arms and cash assistance (if Vetinari is actually giving actual money!) are going first to Rimwards Howondaland, Ankh-Morpork's other ally in the continent, and we (that is, Rimwards Howondaland) are passing them onto Cenotia. Is Uncle Charles still making money by selling on second-hand weapons, by the way? And of course, Cousin James Smith-Rhodes being a Second Secretary at our Embassy here is purely coincidence. As a diplomat, he is an employee of the Bureau of Foreign Affairs and is not working as an agent for his father, our Uncle Charles. In any case, Klatch therefore having potentially or actually hostile states on three sides is quite advantageous for Lord Vetinari, however he has contrived to arrange this. It means the bulk of the Klatchian army is dispersed to cover at least three avenues of threat – Cenotia, Hersheba and a country or two away, Rimwards Howondaland – and cannot easily be concentrated to bring overwhelming force to bear on any one front. But here I am, writing as if I'm preparing a Political Strategy essay for Lady T'Malia. Is it really true three pupils had to be attended to by Matron Igorina for shrapnel injuries after a whalebone in her corset exploded under the stress?

But back to attending Temple with Rivka's family. We noticed after the Service that Rivka's mother was in conversation with other ladies of the Temple, and now and again they looked in our direction. Rivka groaned and went a little pale.

" _Yentas_." she said.

Apparently "yentas" are the local wise women, elders of the community, who know about healing, know minor magics, act as informal Judges of disputes, and, essentially, know everybody's business. They are renowned for this.

"Oh, _witches_." I said. Rivka frowned and bade me keep my voice low.

"You _could_ call them that." she said. "It fits. But not where they can hear it!"

Apparently there's an old law, from the holy scrolls, that says "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live". Rivka thinks it might be a mis-reading and it really means "thou shalt not suffer a cockroach to live." Or perhaps a woodlouse. But nobody ever tries to enforce this one. Not on the Yentas.

"We've got to get out." Rivka said. "Did you hear them? They've got _Yenta Goldberg_ on my case!"

Yenta Goldberg is apparently the Yenta to whom all other Yentas defer. Like Mistress Weatherwax **.(6)** And apparently the Yentas also broker marriages. Rivka is seen as being especially wilful. This is like giving Commander Vimes a difficult and troublesome case to pursue, I think.

In any case, we are leaving town soon. We are taking up Rivka's brother Avvi's idea that as we are on a gap year, we go and work on a kibbutz for a while. There is a new one setting up near the disputed border with Klatch that needs people. A kibbutz is a sort of self-sufficient collective farm. It sounds interesting! (new address attached). I am going now to pack. We are travelling light: back packs and a well-chosen trunk each, the kind of ontents which, for instance, could easily be transferred to panniers or hung from a saddle if we have to travel by horse. Or possibly by camel.

* * *

Dear Johanna. Since I broke off this letter some days ago to prepare and to pack for the journey to the kibbutz which Avvi reccomended to us, your latest letter arrived. what can I say? At least the dybbuk is useful and benevolently inclined.

I am really sorry to hear of your continuing troubles with the dreidel. It was humorous to hear that Bekki appears to have got it to call into existence a never-ending bag of her favourite chocolate sweets, the ones you very carefully ration out to her. I understand why you have confiscated the bag and it is locked up in the kitchen. Ponder is assured these are and will remain perfectly normal chocolate sweets, the sort which are safe in themselves to eat but which in excess cause the usual management problems to parents of a small child.

The University's Professor of Cenotian Studies sounds interesting. Another of those specialist wizards the University doesn't know it has - until there is a need? You would almost suspect the very building itself calls them into being. You also met the senior Rabbi at the Cenotian Temple on Gods Street? He has the mournful and thoughtful appearance to him of one responsible for Rivka's spiritual welfare for the past seven years. I can see this would make any priest a little melancholy. At least they considered the dreidel and agreed that this is an artefact, thought lost, once belonging to the great Rabbi Gemeliael Schmuckmann of Klumpstadt-on-Ah, who apparently also had to do with creating golems. Just as well Bekki hadn't thought to spin it near her dolls and teddy bears, then! (Sorry. I should not smile. But perhaps now I perceive why the stall holder sold it to me for only fifteen shekels).

So the original is being taken, for now, into the University museum and the Rabbi believes it should remain there for safekeeping. Cenotians are kindly to children, Johanna. They are a very family-centred faith. Replacing the dangerous item with a near-identical copy for Bekki is both kind and prudent.

In token of apology, please accept the attached, which with this letter will be sent to Ankh-Morpork on the Express Airmail carpet service and should take perhaps only two days to reach you. You will find attached a case of Sharon Fruit, which are most sweet and delicious and un-known in the City. These were selected to be slightly under-ripe, so they will reach peak eating condition during the flight. I have also enclosed several of the related Tracey Fruit, possibly even more brash and garish in colour and having a sharper, tarter, flavour. **(7)** A horticultural treatise on how to propagate the seeds and stones into mature plants is enclosed: your neighbour Doctor Bellamy would find this of interest, and of course she has access to hothouses and greenhouses. (Please remind her that I have not forgotten about the seeds and cutting samples she asked us to find for her). The fruit might be healthier for Bekki than unlimited chocolate!

With love

Your sister and Bekki's loving aunt

Mariella.

* * *

 _ **In the next episode:**_

 _ **Life in a kibbutz on the disputed border with Klatch. A quiet bucolic backwater it ain't. Just right for a pair of Assassins to employ their proven craft skills.  
**_

* * *

 **(1)** Not an official anthem in any way. But a verse from the _**Afrikaanerhartslied**_ by singer-songwriter Bok van Blerk. The song celebrates the struggles of the Boer War, does not express great fondness for the British, and when you get past the multiple pineapples **(1:1),** is actually quite stirring and passionate. You'd have to be made of ice not to feel a lump in the throat.

 **(1:1)** Considering van Blerk's output as a whole, you do wonder if, like some people in the Deep South who think the world ended in 1865, this guy's head and heart still think it's 1901. There's a telling video where he re-enacts the deeds of a great Boer War hero he appears to identify with. Taken up as an anthem by nationalist groups in South Africa, some of which are pining for the Good Old Days of apartheid. But the songwriter can't be held responsible for the way _some_ people are using his song.

 **(2)** Wasn't sure if South Africa grew pineapples or not, and if I was opening myself up for corrections along the lines of "Did you mean Hawaii?" or "Wrong continent!" But it turns out SA does, and indeed exports the blessed things.

 **(3)** It's completely true. Wikipedia notes the history of the dreidel and its many associations are confused and lost in the mists of time. It's variably a sort of Judaic version of a Buddhist prayer wheel, as method of adding a random factor to Cabbalistic mystical mediation, and quite possibly a gambling device akin to a set of dice upon which money may be won or lost. And many other things, as you'd expect from something so apparently simple.

 **(4)** There is: Yiddish comes out of Low German as a vernacular spoken by Jewish Europeans. Low German is cognate with Dutch. Afrikaans is a recognisable dialect of Dutch spoken in Africa. Rivka and Mariella share more than is apparent at first glance.

 **(5)** witness the current religious movement called Christian Zionism, largely prevalent in the USA, where essentially right-wing evangelical fundamentalism gets four-square behind Israel and appears to carry a lot of clout in American government thinking.

 **(6)** I know. Inserting a reference to that great American TV Jewish Mother Beverly Goldberg here. The woman who takes the concept of the Jewish Mother all the way past eleven. Very memorably so. Look, do you think I can write the up-to-eleven Discworld Israel and not refer to _**The Goldbergs**_ at any point?

 **(7)** low pun. Couldn't resist. Sharon fruit are a sweet and soft delicacy grown in Israel and taking their name from the Sharon valley. To non-British readers, "Sharon and Tracey" is shorthand for the sort of loud rather under-dressed girls who go around in pairs on Friday and Saturday nights. The two names go together.

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_


	2. Farmer-fighters? (boerkrygies)

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter two:**_ _boerekrygers: Die dag van rekenskap is hier!_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean area may or may not be getting the treatment here. Readers of a nationality/ethnicity who suspect it's their turn in this story are free to message me with clarifications, corrections and criticism. Thank you!**_

 _ **Life in a kibbutz on the disputed border with Klatch. A quiet bucolic backwater it ain't.**_

 _ **Ember/December. A Kibbutz on the border of Cenotia and Klatch, in a disputed area known in antiquity as the Golem Heights.**_

 _To: Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes,_

 _18 Spa Lane,_

 _Nap Hill,_

 _ANKH-MORPORK_

 _From: Miss Rivka-ben-Devorah, Licenced Assassin (late of Black Widow House, now travelling). At the settlement and kibbutz of Gimela, Cenotia._

Dear Johanna.

Thank you for your letters of the last few weeks. Mariella has asked me to compose a reply on behalf of both of us, as she is very busy at the moment with her assigned duties here. Her very many assigned duties here. I do such unskilled practical work as I can, but my primary role is that of Defence and Security Officer. I suspect this may be needed, but I will write more on this later and humbly ask your advice.

The ideal of a kibbutz is that there is no authority officially centralised in any one person and that decisions are made by a committee of all members. This is all very fine in principle but democracy has its limits, and the problem is that with nobody in charge, nobody giving instructions and other people following them, then everybody mills around arguing and not knowing what to do.

As Mariella has pointed out with increasing force and exasperation, this is not a good thing on what is, when you get down to the roots of things, a farm. And many of the people drawn here by the ideal of kibbutzim living are in their way fine decent folk, who can work hard when directed and supervised, but I suspect many of them are more suited to long discussions of the minutae of theology, religious, philosophical or political discourse, or else have a romantic vision of what being close to the Land entails. They appear to be regrettably short of what being close to the soil actually _means_ , in any relevant and practically meaningful day-to-day interaction with it. For instance, even I can see that when you are tending to the practical needs of oxen and livestock in an enclosed pen, _you do not wear sandals._ I suggested to Mariella that she saved her breath on this one and allowed the people involved to work this one out for themselves. As you so effectively taught us, and I thank you, some lessons may not be taught and can only be learnt. Mr Ariel Traci, one of the core of older and practically skilled people this kibbutz needs, is a cobbler and shoemaker and has been kept very busy indeed by the demand for durable and serviceable boots from those who have learnt a lesson, and who only thought to pack sandals as, well, it's a warm climate, isn't it? (And being on a kibbutz is a sort of extended holiday in a warm forgiving climate, isn't it? To which the only answer is… gevalt, have you got the wrong end of the yad!

Mariella spent the first eleven years of her life in a farming community. I freely and cheerfully admit that this is eleven years more experience than I have. It also appears to be eleven years more experience than many of the settlers here. I am therefore content to allow her to attempt to lead and educate the people around us based on her early experience of agricultural life.

But there are ongoing difficulties. I shall attempt to reproduce, as best I can, an interaction between your sister and one of our hardy community of pioneers and trailblazers. In deference to the fact you may read this letter out loud in front of your family, including Bekki, I will paraphrase some of the more expressive language she employed. I understand that while you wish Bekki to grow up bilingually, there are some aspects of an expressive Vondalaans vocabulary you may not wish her to become fluent in. Just yet. And that there are also many Morporkian colloquial expressions you would not wish her to repeat at school. Your sister is also developing a pleasing fluency in everyday conversational Cenotian, by the way. People are frequently surprised by her grasp of the finer points of my language. I will also **not** attempt to reproduce a Rimwards Howondalandian accent. Please take this as read.

Mariella Smith-Rhodes (hereafter MSR) – look, you have GOT to clear out the cattleshed, heave it all into a wheelbarrow, take it out into the field and spread the muck! The soil here is poor and full of stones! If you want any crop to grow in it, the flipping stones must be taken out and nutrients put in! This isn't some Gods-disapproved abstract concept open for debate and a popular vote, this is what running a blooming dratted farm MEANS!

Tobiah Silbermann (university graduate in political theory and philosophy, with all that entails, hereafter TS): Who elected you queen? We don't have a king, or a queen, I thought we were an autonomous collective…AAAARGH!

MSR (getting angry) Just get a shovel and brush. Fill the barrow. Truck it to the field where we intend to grow a crop of carrots and other root vegetables. Dump it at the edge of the field where I and others can dig it in. Come back to the cowshed. Repeat as often as is necessary.

TS: But we're a collective kibbutz. We take it in turns to act as a sort of executive officer for the week. Your term expired seven weeks ago…. Ugggh!

MSR: Yes, I see. Just do it, Tobias.

TS: But all the decision of that executive officer must be approved at a bi-weekly meeting by a simple majority in the case of purely internal affairs, but a two-thirds majority in the case of AAAARGH!

MSR: Oh, just shut up! Will you get it into your blooming benighted head that if I don't take charge, the only thing you'll be farming here is dirt? Lots of lovely filth and dirt? Everywhere? And even if it means I've got to be the Executive Officer in blooming perpetuity, SOMEBODY who knows what she's blooming well flaming doing is going to have to take over! (I have paraphrased and edited for tone quite extensively here).

By this point Mariella was holding Tobias off the ground by his lapels. I really don't think she realises how forceful she can get. Or perhaps she does. I saw the way she gets when she gets annoyed, and I remarked to her that it even makes me take a step backwards. He went away, muttering something about only fooling himself and really living in an autocratic dictatorship, but picked up the shovel and got to work.

I remarked "When you get like this, you really do look like your.."

"Don't say it!" Mariella said. Well, more than a "say" and less than a "shout", but you know what I mean. No offence, but I was taught by you for seven years. And Mariella is your sister.

"Like your _sister_ , I meant. Which female relative do you _think_ I meant you look like, when you get all emphatic?"

I have met your mother on several occasions. And it occurs to me that your mother, Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, has a lifetime of experience of running a farm. I therefore suggested – and I hope this is not stepping too far forwards – that Mariella should contact your parents, by express airmail, and explain the situation she finds herself in and to ask their advice. It also occurs to me, Johanna, that you created a whole Zoo from empty fields. This is perhaps your way of using the skills and abilities you inherited from your parents? Do you have any relevant advice for Mariella in this situation? I fear she is too proud, perhaps, to seek advice. Mariella does not know this – yet – but I have written to your parents myself. Your mother, who I think quite likes me, asked me to stay in touch, after all. I have said, in passing, we are on a collective farm and have discovered most of the people around us are collectively innocent of any previous knowledge of farming (which includes **me**. I grew up in a city, thinking vegetables appear naturally in the grocers and a room behind the butchers' shop is where meat is somehow called into being. I suspect the majority of people think about these processes at much this level. I am now disabused of this notion. Did I tell you I was asked to kosher a sheep for the collective table? I agreed only because my training as an Assassin means I can kill a creature cleanly and humanely and I shudder to think of the botched mess others might make. But my life, what an inhumation! Am I to send Mr Winvoe half the carcass as 50% Guild tax?)

A regular cart travels back to the nearest town two or three times a week. Letters can go into the post from there and I hope this will take five days at most to reach you. Mariella has introduced me to James Smith-Rhodes at your nation's Embassy in Tel Ari. Anything addressed care of your Uncle Pieter can then travel in a diplomatic bag which is treated with more express speed than usual, and I am sure an Embassy messenger will then deliver such mail direct to your hand. James is a pleasant chap, although not over-burdened with intellect, and seems taken with me (he asked if I were free for dinner. I diplomatically evaded the unspoken question by saying that, regrettably, my religion means I can only date Cenotian men, I hope he understands. But he is inclined to do me favours. As Madame Emmanuelle taught me, this sort of situation is to be encouraged and used to advantage. Please give her my best regards and assure her that I am seeking to apply her teaching as best I can.)

I am glad you received my most urgent post concerning the advisability of not eating too much Sharon fruit all at once. Mariella may not have been aware of this when she sent you the full case. I do know she was completely unaware of the presence of the _Androctonus Crassicauda Cenotious_ which was present in the fruit. Thank you for taking the time to tell me, at precise length, about the scorpion's full Latatian classification as well as its impressive degree of venomous toxicity. At least it was sluggish in the cold and your cook Dorothea had the presence of mind to trap it under a glass for you to professionally deal with. I am sorry Ponder had a moment of paranoia. A wizard receiving a scorpion in the post is, I fully understand, no small thing and has bad associations, given the University's long history and recent practice. I hope his nerves are now soothed.

Doctor Bellamy was commendably fast in advising you of the laxative side effects of too much Sharon and Tracy fruit and you all avoided this. I am glad you all appreciated the taste, as in my country it is a delicacy we are proud of. (In moderate servings). I understand Arch-Chancellor Ridcully found it "rather more-ish" and requested seconds. And before anyone could stop him, thirds. I hope he is better now.

And yes, Mariella did buy that dreidel from a street trader called Banish-Meself-From-The-Gates-Of-The-Camp-For-Seven-Days-Of-Ritual-Cleansing (Chaim Mordechai Obadiah Tobit) ben-Dibblah. I will not ask how you found this out so swiftly. Mariella did say his sales patter is very convincing (of course it is. He's a Dibbler, and Cenotian. I was not on hand to advise her, unfortunately.) And she now reflects he was very eager to sell the thing on, and she should have suspected something was amiss because the haggling was so perfunctory.

She now knows better. I enclose some ornamental leatherwork for Bekki, made by our kibbutz leatherworker, who had romantic notions of spending her time making decorative but functionally useless things from animal hides somebody else would provide for her, and living her projected life of trading them at craft fairs and bazaars. Mariella quite bluntly informed her she is to make _useful_ items, like harnesses and traces for the draught animals. _And_ that she's to get up to speed, quickly, with cleaning and tanning fresh hides. This is obviously not quite what she had in mind when she arrived here, but after a little cry and a lie-down, she is adapting well to new realities. I sweetened the pill for her by describing a lovely little girl who likes pretty things, what could she make? The package has been thoroughly screened for any stowaway livestock and is, insofar as I can tell, non-magical. Give Auntie Rivka's love to Bekki for me.

With good memories of your teaching

Your former student

Rivka ben-Devorah.

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

I apologise for only having found the time to write the briefest of postcards.

Things went from bad to worse after we arrived here. What can I say? I know from contact with Home that the city people Uncle Baal takes on treks and safaris into the Veldt that there is a big gulf between people who are born to farming, and people from cities who have a somewhat romantic view of what farmers do. Uncle Baal is good at jollying them along and being diplomatic and coaxing them into work and doing their share of the thousands of chores necessary. And at least around our own farming community there are many, many, people born to the Veldt who know exactly what is needed.

Well. I have discovered that I am not diplomatic. And Rivka and I arrived into a place where some people know what is to be done and consequently do eighty percent of the work. So it is not a complete _scheisshuis_ of a set-up. There are some buildings here, some of which have been here for a long time and belonged, perhaps, to an earlier smaller farm. There are some pens and enclosures for the animals. There are some buildings to live in and some sort of kitchen and bathroom facilities. But many people live in tents still. Progress on building new living quarters moves at the pace of those who are competent at doing such things.

The majority of people here are from cities, or recent immigrants from cities outside Cenotia. They have a dream, and an ideal, yes. But they are from cities. They need to learn farmcraft from the ground up. Those who dream, as a wise man said, need both feet firmly planted in the Earth. Or nothing gets done. And Cenotians argue. About everything. There seems to be no way of stopping this. Rivka says to me to not even try. She assures me that when there's a real need, her people are perfectly capable of shutting up, getting together, stopping the arguing and constant complaining, allowing a leader to emerge, and letting the leader get on with it. It's apparently how they fought the Omnians to a standstill and how they've beaten the Klatchians in three wars. It comes as a shock to people when Cenotians _really_ fight, she said. I hope she's right.

I am continually trying to establish order, to set routines, to explain and to demonstrate what I think should be done. It is hard work. I suspect the Cenotians have a name for me that translates as "stroppy bossy red-haired Gentile girl who swears a lot in her Gentile tongue." The word is "kasnikas shiksa", apparently. I will not ask. Rivka and the others are teaching me Cenotian, by the way. Rivka has suggested, if I need them, local translations for word like "voetsaak" and "blitsem" and "naaie!" These are useful words, though I accept the need to use them sparingly.

Slowly, some better order is emerging. People are beginning to realise that to run a place like this takes work. It also needs to make a profit. We have lines of credit in the nearby town for building materials and so forth. But – and get this – we are not yet producing enough food to feed ourselves let alone sell or trade on! It is a funny sort of farm that has to buy foodstuffs in to feed its people. We cannot live on credit indefinitely. One man in the kibbutz is a bookkeeper and another is a former shopkeeper. I am trusting them to manage the financial side and to haggle in the town for the best deals we can get. Rivka has gone with them and smiled encouragingly at the traders to whom we owe money. At least we are not going to be bilked or cheated. It is not generally known we are both Assassins. We are dressed as "civilians", although or working clothes are in our packs and can be brought out at need. (Rivka thinks there will be a need. I agree with her. I will discuss this later). I suspect something about her says to people wise enough to read her – do not even attempt to cheat me. Honesty and probity are appreciated.

Even little things. Elementary things. Like "do not allow goats to graze near the beehives". (Honey is one of our few unquestionable successes, so far. We even have a surplus to trade.) The need to put fences round the crop fields to keep animals out. To lift and remove stones from the earth. These can then go into walls and basic structures. To collect dung and plough it in. rocks out, fertilizer in. Basic farming. To be aware that to make this work we need to strive for self-sufficiency.

Rivka thinks I should write to Father and explain the situation and ask for his advice. I think she is right. I wish he were here. Can you imagine Vatti striding around this place and shouting at people? Or Mother.

This place. Avvi did not tell us it's practically on the border with Klatch. Wars have been fought here over "debatable and disputed border country". The de facto border with Klatch is two or three miles away. They tell me now and again Klatchian soldiers patrol in the hills. You see, it is feeling like a home from home: Father tells me Zulu soldiers are often seen on their side of the River. He has no issue with this so long as they are watched and stay on their side. If necessary, he mobilises part of the Kommando and rides on our side of the River, just to let them know _their_ presence has been noted. Part of the game. I would do the same here, for the same reason, if more of these men had military experience and knew which end of a weapon is which. They don't. I fear the only actual weapons for fighting with are the ones Rivka and I brought with us, which are carefully guarded in our luggage. Rivka is Security Officer, by the way. She has led the one or two people here with fighting experience on patrols to find out more about the lie of the land. I keep meaning to go out with her, when I can find the time.

And here is a story. People here before us tell us they lost some livestock one night. They were there in the evening, and gone the next morning. How, they ask, in some bewilderment, can fifty head of cattle and sheep go astray and be lost without trace?

Did it not occur to you, I asked, carefully, that you might have been visited that night by bandits? Out of those hills?

Ask a silly question.

Rivka says she is "instituting measures". Her reconnaissance trips into the hills are a part of this. She thinks the bandits came from the Klatchian side and she is seeking to locate their camp. We both hope they are not the D'regs, or we could have a real fight on our hands. But I recall from Geography lessons that the D'regs do not come this far Hubwards and Turnwise. Just, we hope, bandits.

She agrees with me that we need weapons. And to train people to use them. Problems multiply. I have written to Father to ask his opinion. Rivka has suggested that if Cousin James Smith-Rhodes is working for Uncle Charles and helping to sell weapons to Cenotia, he could be leant on to divert twenty or thirty crossbows and sufficient ammunition our way. What do you think? Could Cousin Julian drop a suitably worded hint to his older brother? (And to his father?)

It seems I have not only to teach sixty or seventy people to be Boers. I also have to teach them to be _**Boerkrygies**_. If nothing else, those stolen animals and the strong possibility that we will be revisited demands _**Die daag van Rekenskap,**_ a day of reckoning. What do you think?

The local area. This is called The Golem Heights. Apparently in antiquity, the clay to make the first golems was quarried here. Much of it may still be in Ankh-Morpork, walking around and putting in a hard day's work. It is steep hilly ground full of kopjies. Very reminiscent of Home. Nearby is the remains of a small town that was destroyed first by the Omnians and then by the Klatchians during the Seven-Days War. The people who lived here have relocated and rebuilt some miles away. There are also what look like archaeological sites of some antiquity. Again if time allows I will find out about them for Miss Band. Archaeological digs in war zones and active battlefields make life interesting for her. If she could be persuaded to come out here in a school holiday, and being other useful Assassin-archaeologists with her, she would be very welcome!

We do seem to have got bogged down here. I feel I owe it to these people to help make their dream work, but I also want to carry on with Rivka, travelling across the continent. So I feel our objectives here are to secure the future of this kibbutz, educate and train the people, and to deliver a very clear message to any bandits in the hills, with extreme prejudice if it is called for, that raiding this or any other farm is not a good prospect for their futures. To deliver _pyn en smart_. Can we do this pro-bono, or do we need to make it a formal Guild contract? Please advise.

Your loving sister

Mariella

PS – sorry about the scorpion. At least it was of professional interest and it's secured now at the AMU. Sorry for worrying Ponder. At least he knows it wasn't sent by another wizard. Although it (accidentally!) came from an Assassin.

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_

 _ **Bok van Blerk "Afrikaanerhart" full lyrics:**_

n vuur en bloed vind ek my nou  
Soos elke boer en kind en vrou  
'n Oormag kwyl nou oor ons land  
Staan gewapen tot die tand  
Sy skadu val 'n donker wolk  
Oor die toekoms van ons volk  
En veg ons nie sal ons verdwyn  
By Magersfontein, by Magersfontein, by Magersfontein  
Trek ons die lyn

Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur

Die kakies wil ons volk verower  
Belowe pyn en smart  
Maar as jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
My Afrikanerhart

As jy my vra sal ek jou sê  
Hoë diep my hart se wortels lê  
As jy my vra sal ek jou wys  
Dis my grond hier in my vuis

Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur

Die kakies wil ons volk verower  
Belowe pyn en smart  
Maar as jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
My Afrikanerhart

Al breek die hel hier agter ons los  
En al stort die hemel neer  
Hou jou lyn en staan jou man  
Dis hier waar ons hul kan keer  
Staan vas Staan vas Suid-Afrika  
Staan vas Staan vas Suid-Afrika

Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur

Die kakies wil ons volk verower  
Belowe pyn en smart  
Maar as jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur  
My Afrikanerhart


	3. Op de KaplynOn The Border

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter three:**_ _ **Dis my grond hier in my vuis**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean area may or may not be getting the treatment here. Readers of a nationality/ethnicity who suspect it's their turn in this story are free to message me with clarifications, corrections and criticism. Thank you!**_

 _ **Life continues in a kibbutz on the disputed border with Klatch. The pioneers are beginning to get the idea, under more skilled supervision. Other problems are appearing and need resolution. Official eyes are turning to events in Gimela. And on top of Klatchian bandits and Cenotian government officials, there is the even more terrible prospect of Yenta Goldberg. Now read on.**_

 _ **Ick/Offle. A Kibbutz on the border of Cenotia and Klatch, in a disputed area known in antiquity as the Golem Heights.**_

Hi Johanna!

A lot has happened here since we last exchanged letters in Ember. We are now in the month of Offle, although the religious Cenotians do not call it that, named as the month is for what they consider a pagan false God. Here it is Tevet. "Violence coming out of water" in a very old tongue. A crocodile, perhaps.

There isn't really a winter here as the Central Continent knows it, although the days become distinctly shorter and there can be cold rain. There is also no Hogswatch: a festival called Hannukah is celebrated. (did you receive the cards and gifts? The local tradition, and it is a nice one, is that each child receives one small gift for each day of the festival. I hope Bekki had pleasure in them.)

I am pleased to say our first potato crops were large and plentiful. I had a struggle to get them to plant potatoes. I pointed out the virtue of this is that they grow fast, take no special management, we can have several crops per year, and they are above all nutritious, if admittedly boring on every dinner plate. The priority is to become self-sufficient in at least one staple foodstuff and reduce our reliance on outside help, as well as to have a surplus that can be traded with other farms for useful things. But try telling these people that. They want to run before they can even crawl, and to go straight to planting olives, oranges and lemons that will not see useful fruit for twenty years. But they still need to eat now.

I hope I am not here in twenty years.

Running a farm is a destiny I wanted to escape from when I was eleven. Going into farm management after leaving school must be a joke on the part of some God or other. But I am pleased to say that it looks as if Rivka and I will be moving on sometime in February, at latest March, with our obligation here over. Rivka is keen to go as soon as she can. Defeating the Klatchian bandits was easy. Conferring with officials of her country's government was straightforward. Lady T'Malia was a thorough teacher of politics and diplomacy. Please thank her for me. She may be interested in this story. By the way, I am pleased to hear from you that Burleigh and Stronginthearm have developed lightweight steel alloy stays for their new line of corsets which are guaranteed to withstand the severest stresses. Thank you for sending me those clippings from the Times which advertise the new corsets and support garments as a "peace dividend" from technological advances developed for body armour and shipbuilding. They were most informative. I am pleased many whales will be spared. They always seem such inoffensive creatures: it hardly seemed fair they died so that women of a certain age might look today in much the shape they were when they were twenty-five.

But Rivka, while she is capable of defeating bandits, deflecting politicians and government inspectors, is having problems with Yenta Goldberg, who arrived in the wake of the recent fighting looking for her. My friend is now somewhat keen to leave. We are considering, with local assistance, travelling through Klatch. The border here is now firmly closed and patrolled by soldiers of both sides, but that makes it somewhat easier for us to slip through. As we were taught, soldiers are simple people who tend to get fixed in their patterns of thought and repetitive activity, and this is a gift to an Assassin who wishes to travel undetected.

I get ahead of myself. Have you repaired the kitchen cupboard after the Incident which caused it to explode off its hinges? Again I apologise. Especially to poor Dorothea, who was in the path of the deluge. But she is marvellously adaptive to the hazards of working for you and Ponder and this is one of many things she has taken in her stride.

My last letter to you was at the end of Ember. I thank you for the short reply to my last letter, which simply said "remember to avoid over-confidence! (longer reply to follow)" in large capital letters. I do like to think Miss Band sending me on the Vimes Run was a salutary lesson. And as you of course remember, when the private Post Office savings account I was very carefully keeping secret from you was discovered, and I was summoned to Mademoiselle Antoinette's office for an interview, and you were present, and I had to explain to you both how I came to have a secret bank account with several thousand dollars in it… **(1)** I accept you had a right to insist the money was transferred to the trust account you faithfully maintained for me. I thank you for allowing me to retain three hundred dollars for personal use. And that it was over-confident for me to assume this would never be discovered.

You stood back and permitted Mademoiselle Antoinette, as my housemistress, to deliver such punishment as she thought fit. I did wonder what her version of the Vimes Run would be. For a moment I thought she was letting me off lightly when she said to me to go to a certain address on Morpork Street because I was going to learn all about hockey. This perplexed me. Especially when she said "I figure you need a whole bunch of supervision, buddy. Wrap up warm."

And all you said was "She is not joking about wrapping up warm. So wear thick warm clothes." I understood you were in no mood to explain more. You were, in fact, annoyed. I know to be silent whenever you are annoyed.

I realised when I arrived at the Pork Futures Warehouse. And what Mademoiselle Antoinette means, as an Acerian, by "hockey". I had not realised she has an arrangement to rent a large space at the PFW for competitive sport involving two teams of crazy Acerians, and others, who hurtle round the ice at high speed with large sticks chasing a small flat ball. I witnessed a game between an Acerian team and one from the strange Hub people called the _Swommi_. Acerians and Swommis had actually paid for entrance, and were cheering on their national sides. It was like the Llamedosian Rules fifteen-a-side ball game men play at Home, only on ice, wearing necessary body armour, with much violence and with large sharp blades strapped to the underside of each foot. I watched and froze for an indeterminate length of time. People were enjoying this? **(2)** Evidently they were: the Swommis kept up a chant of " _Perkele_!" which I took to be a war-cry. It just made me think by association of percolation. Hot, hot, coffee. (Apparently the phrase translates into our language as " _Voetsaak_!" and has as many versatile uses).

And at the end, one of the Acerian players, one who had shown much cheerfully applied violence, skated over to me and took off her face-mask. It was of course Mademoiselle Antoinette.

"Did'ya enjoy that, _chouette_?" she asked me. I carefully assented. Then she said

"Good, eh, 'cos you're gonna learn all aboot skating." she said. "Report here every Wednesday evening until I tell you to stop. Gotta keep you out of trouble, honey!"

I am from a hot country. Mademoiselle Antoinette is from a cold one. I could see why this was punishment. And at first, alongside the other delinquents, I wondered how you are supposed to stand upright on ice skates, let alone move on them in such cold. But I persevered, and learnt a lesson. Mastering any new skill or insurmountable challenge begins in the mind. What at first seems impossible becomes, by degrees, easier with practice and familiarity. And so I learnt to ice-skate, where my enemies were my feet, the skates, and the bitter cold. But Rimwards Howondaland will never put up much of a team at the Hubland Winter Games, I think.

I thought of the compulsory ice-skating lessons when confronted with getting this place into shape and somehow making competent farmers out of city people from all over the Disc, whose only common link is that they are all Cenotian. At first it was as impossible as standing upright on ice-skates, or herding cats.

Father helped. It seems Rivka wrote to my parents, explained the situation, said I was too proud to ask for help but I needed it. (I am pleased that Mother wrote to her, said she was warmly appreciative Rivka remembered her, and that of course she should aspire to marriage and motherhood, every girl should. As she tells her own daughters. Then Rivka got the same advice she sends to me and which you used to get for a long time, until you met Ponder. Good.)

Father sent much practical advice, asked me to describe the land more fully, with a farmer's eye, and advised me to carry on kicking peoples' guavas and shouting at them until they get the idea. But he also said the hardest lesson he had to learn when he was younger was that you can apply as much stick as you want, but there must also be carrot to make the stick work. Give them something they like, Mariella. Give them a dream. A vision. If you can't promise jam, make sure there is bread and a promise there may be jam tomorrow to spread on it. An idea to get behind.

There is much wisdom in this. Father also said he was going to drop a word into the ear of Uncle Charles concerning the other concerns. If I know Father, the word he drops into the ear of Uncle Charles will be very emphatic, delivered from inches away, and audible from perhaps Ghat.

I was also to be tolerant and remember these are not people born to the land. He reminded me our people were like that too when we got off the boats from Sto Kerrig and Ankh-Morpork to make a new continent work. Lots of people with a vision, but not many farmers. And we made Howondaland work. Remember the history of our people, he said. We have more in common with these Cenotians than you might think.

An amusing story. It was not amusing at the time. I was recovering two cows from where they had strayed over the nearby river. Driving them back and thinking about _over-confidence_ , and doing something I did many times as a child, I was inattentive and one of the beasts side-swiped me with her rump and sent me into the water. Luckily it is not too deep at the ford, and I was lying on my back spluttering. I saw Rivka walking on the far bank with Tobias Silbermann, who is alright, but whose head is stuffed with silly impractical notions of how the kibbutz should be run. I think of him like a living Reg Shoe working out how to become a Zombie. And there are many Reg (and Regina!) Shoes here who I have to manage. Lying there, in shallow water, half-stunned, all I could think of was to draw my machete and wave it in the air to attract attention. Tobias seemed to blink and looked baffled. Rivka patted him on the shoulder, then came to me and helped me regain my feet. She seemed amused.

Later on she explained that Tobias had been indignantly complaining about my taking charge against all the rules of a syndicalist commune that should lack an oppressive hierarchy of leaders. He had likened it to some old king who had based his authority and right to rule on the fact he'd received a mystical sword from a water-goddess, or something. Apparently strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Some watery bint with a scimitar… and then they saw me.

"Actually, it's a machete." I said. And went to get the cows.

* * *

 _To: Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes,_

 _18 Spa Lane,_

 _Nap Hill,_

 _ANKH-MORPORK_

 _From: Miss Rivka-ben-Devorah, Licenced Assassin (late of Black Widow House, now travelling). At the settlement and kibbutz of Gimela, Cenotia._

Dear Johanna.

Things are improving here.

When the carts arrived with the large crates on them, with the very unsubtle labels, I knew it was only going to get better. But…

A GIFT IN PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP TO THE FARMERS OF CENOTIA FROM THE FARMERS OF RIMWARDS HOWONDALAND.

CONTENTS ARE AGRICULTURAL TOOLS FOR ACCEPTED AGRICULTURAL USAGE ONLY!

That was almost like advertising in very big letters "these are really weapons". Your people are generous and know what's needed and I thank you, but they really ought to learn about subtlety. The words "Honestly" and "We kid you not" might have been added after "for agricultural use only". Although Mariella did remark that "accepted agricultural purposes" in your country can mean "fighting off a massive invasion from the Zulu Empire next door", and thirty-five crossbows and several thousand bolts can therefore fit this definition, by Rimwards Howondalandian standards.

"Now we just have to train people to use them." she said. "And where do we store them?"

Another crate had fifty machetes in it. Which are accepted agricultural tools, and useful for chopping back tough vegetation. It also contained fifty standard-issue belts and scabbards which also, I could not help noting, had the sort of pouches that soldiers in your country use to store ready-use crossbow bolts.

And then we discovered the long handles packed into one crate, with a selection of useful pitchfork, hoe, spade and shovel heads in a separate case, allowing us the versatility of selecting which long-handled tools we need. I'm sure the spearpoints and halberd-heads packed with the tools were a shipping error. But labelling them as "bill-hooks" was a nice touch of ambiguity. I understand from Mariella, by the way, that a bill-hook is a curved blade on a long handle that allows the farm labourer to reach a long way and hack through any inconvenient and stubborn growth which is otherwise out of reach.

"These we can issue straight away." Mariella said. "but we keep the crossbows hidden, for now."

I find myself respecting the Smith-Rhodes family more and more.

There were letters for Mariella with the delivery. One was from a person only identifying himself as "C", who said he had heard about her dilemma from several sources of information and was only too pleased to assist, as the situation demanded. Without saying as much in words, I sensed a reminder there that if "C" is ever in need of Mariella's good favours, she will naturally be disposed to assist him. Families do impose a network of mutual obligations on their members, don't they?

The clarification from the Guild that this can be viewed as legitimate pro-bono private enterprise and not as an official contract was also helpful. Mr Winvoe also waived his claim to a 50% Guild tax on any animals I inhume, suggesting that I cover myself by taking up membership of the Guild of Butchers, as this appears to be in their official remit **. (3)** I appreciate that the Guild expects a full report on our activities here and this will be sent as soon as time allows. I can assure you that your own contribution, which came in a large case with a customs label declaring the contents to be "fireworks and other related party celebratory devices for leisure use only, safely packed in accordance with Post Office Regulations for hazardous chemicals in transit (list of regulatory subsections attached). In advance of the midwinter festival of Channukah and the universal New Year festivities" were deployed as part of a most satisfactory party. Our guests of honour got to appreciate them most.

I was elected Executive Officer for Security by one of those long noisy meetings of kibbutz members where much argument occurs for several hours and perhaps five minutes of useful business is concluded. I suspect the intention was for me to be a sort of Night Watchwoman who interrupts her sleep to patrol the perimeter for five minutes every so often. This is correct, in that I have patrolled by night, yes.

Fortunately, some kibbutzniks and indeed kibbutznikiot are more grounded in practical reality than others. There is Jakob Flensberg, who served in the military and fought in the Five Days' War. He thought to bring his issue sword and crossbow with him, considering there may be a need. Moishe Cohen is a vague sort of fellow. This is possibly down to his having served in the Klatchian Foreign Legion, but he is a wealth of knowledge as to Klatchian military customs and invaluable in predicting the ways in which they think. Eventually he remembers and can answer most questions I ask. He also remembered to bring weapons. There are also Leah and David, who tend the sheep. This may not sound much but shepherds have impressive fieldcraft and wilderness survival skills. They also, in a way, come armed. Johanna, believe me, Cenotian shepherds have _very_ impressive skills in a particular weapon. It is not one the Guild teaches but I believe it may have practical applications and is one we have managed to overlook.

Shepherds and goatherds also range wide and get to see many places and know the land. Leah and David have very kindly shown me the wider geography in this area and their knowledge is invaluable. They are also annoyed concerning the issue of the missing sheep and consider it's about time somebody came along who intends to do something about it.

We have patrolled into the Heights and noted the various tracks and trails into the hills. Technically I suspect we have strayed across the border into Klatch many times, but in most cases there has been a total absence of Klatchian security forces. The border was not, when we arrived, clearly marked. Leah and David tell me that a certain "shepherd's privilege" applies and it is understood that sheep know no borders and their keepers may retrieve them without hindrance. They are on friendly terms with their Klatchian counterparts, and there is no animosity. Every shepherd knows his or her own. They refuse to believe Klatchian shepherds stole our sheep. Shepherds do not think like that. But they did advise me of lots of telltale hoofprints leading down one particular wide trail on the night livestock went missing. This was a promising avenue for investigation, so we investigated.

Myself, Moishe and Jakob had not ridden far when we were for the first time stopped by Klatchian soldiers. I realised our best defence was to pretend we were clueless kibbutzim who had inadvertently strayed. (our weapons were concealed against this eventuality). This was accepted, with some unfriendly sniggering on the Klatchian part.

We were informed we were now in Klatch and while we were being allowed to depart on this occasion, if we were caught here again we would be detained.

"Please, _offendi._ " I said to the Klatchian officer. "It would be most helpful to know exactly where the border with Klatch lies so that we do not make this error again."

"The border is where the sea meets the shore at Tel Ari." he said. There was sniggering. I quietly vowed to make him regret this, when a suitable opportunity presented itself, and memorised his face for later.

"But here." He indicated the highest point of the hill trail. "The current political situation, as we are taught it, instructs us the current border is here."

"Just here, esteemed sir? At the high point of the ridge?"

"Here, girl. This side is Klatch. _This_ side is your Cenotia. For now. Do not let us catch you straying again."

So we parted company. I resolved to investigate their side of the Heights, the one they were keen to prevent us from entering, as soon as I could. At the kibbutz I conferred with Mariella, and we went to speak to Joseph the carpenter and Josiah the painter. They were busy directing people to work on the new buildings (both are quietly pleased Mariella seems to know what she's doing and is capable of organising people). But both were happy to perform a certain job for us.

The next day, I rode out with Jakob and Moishe and some of the latest newcomers to the kibbutz, who Mariella was very pleased to see as they have useful skills. And some little home comforts she has not seen since we disembarked at Tel Ari. I should be disapproving as some things they brought with them are frowned upon by my country's culture and religion, but you must be tolerant. It was also nice to see her happy.

We rode to exactly the point where the haughty Klatchian had informed us the border ran. Then we dug post-holes and erected the new border markers, with the blue and white of Cenotia on one side and the green of Klatch on the other. As we were doing this, a Klatchian patrol arrived. The officer was not with them and I was dealing with a sergeant, or perhaps a corporal this time. In the manner of these things, he was more amenable.

"'Ere, what are you doing?" he demanded. It was interesting that his accent was tinged with Ankh-Morpork. Morporkian is a very useful universal language.

"Yesterday, a Captain al-Hambra informed me I was trespassing in Klatch." I said. "He very properly advised me to return to my own side of the Border. But I pointed out to him that there is no indication here as to where the Border runs. On his authority, he was kind enough to show me. I think it would be useful to everyone if there were formal border markers. Don't you?"

"Well, yes, miss. But you ain't got authority to do that. We could just rip them up."

I smiled at him.

"But this is the very point where an officer of the Caliph told me the border lies. Would such an exalted one lie? And this is an official action undertaken on behalf of the Republic of Cenotia. If you tear up these posts on a sensitive border, you risk provoking an international incident in a place where misunderstandings have led to war. Do you really want to be identified as a man who started a war? And military history tells us that when a war begins, there are generally heavy casualties among those poor unfortunates who are actually on the front line on the first day of combat when they are caught by surprise."

He looked a little pale.

"You got a point, miss. I reckon we should just report back. Ask for clarification."

"Please. You might also suggest to the Captain that formally identifying the border will prevent little difficulties like the one which happened yesterday. If I am now caught on this side of the post, you may detain me and I have no defence of ignorance. But, and let me make this clear to you, any Klatchian caught on the Cenotian side without leave may also be detained and possibly imprisoned. International law and convention would be on both our sides. Please report this."

Mariella remarked that in her country, the convention is that White Howondalandians caught on the Zulu side of their border tend to meet summary trial and punishment, involving assegais and disembowelment. She expanded on this theme for a while, describing the border police of her country and incidents where they have allegedly been over-enthusiastic with Zulus they detain.

"What can I say? We can be very direct people in Howondaland."

The corporal paled. Watching a Klatchian go pale is interesting. He also appeared to be aware of a lot of people with weapons, crossbows and axes mainly.

"Yes, miss. Err. Have a good day, miss."

And the six Klatchian soldiers retreated and rode back. We went home. We'd made our point.

* * *

 _From a personal letter by Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes_ _Licenced Assassin (late of Black Widow House, now travelling). At the settlement and kibbutz of Gimela, Cenotia. To her sister doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons, of Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork_

Hi again, Johanna!

Did I mention we've had new people here? Things are at last beginning to shape up. We got some backpackers from Fourecks and the Foggy Islands walking in and casually asking if they could blag a wash, a square meal and a berth for the night. When I found out they can shear sheep and they're prepared to teach our people how to do it, I snapped them up. They did insist on playing the "call that a knife?" game, though. This appears to be a national custom and there is no way of preventing this. I remembered your example and showed them my machete.

"No. This is a knife."

We got on just fine after that.

And we have got Dwarfs!

Two cartloads of Dwarfs rolled up to the kibbutz. They have just arrived from the Central Continent. I was feeling worried and gloomy concerning evidence of rodents in the food stores and granary. This is not good on a farm. I was considering how we might get a few cats here. Thinking of Father's wise words concerning providing a few comforts, and that the inevitable kittens might offer a low-cost feelgood factor. Everybody likes kittens, and they grow up into cats who eat mice. All farms get cats. (And no reminding me about lions and leopards and having too much of a good thing).

"'Scuse me, miss. People tell me you're the _dezka-knick_ around here?"

I recalled my Basic Dwarfish class with Miss Bjorksdottir. She was kind enough to have said that among humans, we Rimwards Howondalandians are most adapted to articulate the sounds of Dwarfish, because of _Vondalaans_. At least, I think she was being complimentary.

"Senior Mining Engineer? In the sense of one who is in charge? Ja, on good days I almost believe it myself."

"Pleased to meet you, miss. Errr. We heard as how these hills might be rich in coal and metal ores and other useful stuff. And what with there having been wars every so often, nobody much lives here and there aren't no mines. Yet. Sounds perfect. Once we've sunk a shaft, miss, and got settled in, you humans can get on with fighting and we can get on with the mining. Everybody's happy."

I thought quickly.

"But until you have excavated your mine. Which takes time. You are looking for a place to stay, temporarily, and you are asking if it can be here, yesno?"

"That's it exactly, miss! We got skills and they're at your disposal, way of paying back your generous hospitality, sort of."

"Is that a forge in the back of the cart?" I said. Things were looking up.

"It is, miss! I'm betting you need lots of iron and steel things? Ploughshares and so on?"

The Dwarf beamed. I remembered the other immediate worry.

"look, I'm not going to lie to you. Food may be short until we can resupply. I discovered this morning" (And here I took a deep breath. No farmer likes to admit this. Mother would be most disapproving and censorious) "I discovered rodents have got into the flour. Even if some could be saved, the Cenotians have a religious code. They would consider everything is now tainted and cannot be eaten."

Every Dwarf looked up. Some began salivating.

"You got _rats_?" their leader said. There was excited murmuring.

"Ain't seen a rat since we got off ship." said another.

"Yeah. Ask the local humans where you can buy rat to eat and they look at you as if you've just said something really dirty."

" _And_ we ran out of the last of the dwarf bread."

I recalled, belatedly, about Dwarf diet. I tried to look grave.

"This morning I discovered rat droppings in the flour."

"Hot _damn_!" said the Dwarf leader. He looked very hopeful suddenly.

"The contaminated flour. No human person will now eat it. You would be doing me a favour if you were to dispose of it." I said.

The Dwarf leader looked excited.

"Lars! Bjorn! Get the ovens set up, lads! Tonight we _eat_!"

He turned to me.

"Got ordinary human flour in one of the wagons. A hundredweight or so. Nothing added, mind. Just bog-standard tasteless bread flour. Can we swap it for yours?"

"Rats." said another Dwarf, dreamily. "Real, live, actual, _rats!_ Here for the hunting!"

The Dwarf looked up at me.

"You wouldn't believe the rations we been on, miss. We got iron rations here. Sides of pig meat we got in Ankh-Morpork. You know, pig meat. Bacon. Salted and cured. It's alright, I suppose, and you can live on it, but it ain't rat. And people round here. They almost thinks like Dwarfs and they got a religion. I swear you could cross out every "Om" and write "Tak" over the top and they're Dwarfs. And then you find out all the prohibitions on food you can't eat. Like rat. And then they see the bacon and shudder. Never stopped us!"

I was salivating by now.

You have _bacon_. Human bread?"

"All we could get, miss…"

And twenty minutes later, Rivka found me among the Dwarfs, eating my first taste-of-heaven bacon sandwich for nearly six months. Other Dwarfs had gone to the silos to hunt. This was a good day. Rat problem solved, a forge and smithy for the asking, and a bacon sandwich. With mustard. Oh, and twenty axes. This was a most useful consideration when consulting with the Klatchians. When Rivka and I went up to establish the border markers, we were supported by Dwarfs with pole-axes. They assured me the reach needs to be long to deter human cavalrymen. I cannot fault such logic.

Now I think I should tell you about the gentlemen from government, from the Institute of the Protective Shield, who came calling on us shortly after the weapon – sorry agricultural equipment strictly for peaceful purposes – delivery.

* * *

5850 words. Damn. Hits my preferred upper limit for chapters. To be continued in Part Four, " _ **A Farewell to Cenotia**_ ".

 **(1** ) For how this came about, refer to my tale _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_ , in which Mariella discovers how to win at gambling. She just didn't hide the tell-tale pass book to the incriminating savings account as securely as she'd thought. And she hadn't stopped to consider that despite all visible evidence to the contrary, schools **do** retire their most dog-eared text books from time to time and replace them. Not often, but it happens. The maths text in which she'd concealed the pass book was called in and replaced with a brand spanking-new updated edition…. She and her partner in sin, Sissi N'Kima, had been caught breaking into the school book depository to track down and recover their pass books. Official sanction soon followed. Sissi was duly sent, by her Housemistress Miss Alice Band, on the dreaded Vimes Run. Mariella got something equally inventively horrible.

 **(2)** with the Pork Futures Warehouse, and with "Canadians" in Ankh-Morpork, there _must_ be ice-hockey. The two were made for each other. Elsewhere I introduced Antoinette de Badin-Boucher as a senior student from Quirmian Aceria who hopefully brought ice-skates with her. And who got Sent Up before Downey for breaking into the PFW to ice-skate. Several years on she is a Housemistress. And has evidently placed a business proposition before the PFW's owners as to _what else_ the building could be used for. Thus A-M gets an ice-skating venue, by default. In our world, Canada has an international brawling and fist-fighting squad who know how to have a really good punch-up on ice skates, playing a little hockey in between brawls. Any international with Russia is a real grudge-match. Other nations such as Finland do not lag too far behind. "Finns are crazy" is a default position. " _Perkkele"_? Look it up…

 **(3)** Guild of Butchers and Slaughtermen membership sub-section 3:2(1), _Kosher and Halal considerations._ Mr Gerhardt Sock respectfully requests those participating in animal slaughter for religious reasons take a brief course at the Guild in the practicalities, and become Associate Members. High Priest Ridcully supports this and ensures novice priests take the relevant Health and Safety Courses administered by the Butchers' Guild.

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_

 _ **MOSSAD: -**_ _al-Mōsād_ ; literally meaning "the Institute"), short for _HaMossad leModiʿin uleTafkidim Meyuḥadim_ (Hebrew: המוסד למודיעין ולתפקידים מיוחדים , meaning "Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations"),

 _ **SHIN BET(H):-**_ The **Israel Security Agency** ( **ISA** , Hebrew: שירות הביטחון הכללי _Šerut ha-Bitaẖon haKlali_ "General Security Service"; Arabic: جهاز الأمن العام ), better known by the acronym **Shabak** (Hebrew: שב״כ , IPA: [ʃaˈbak] ( listen), Arabic: شاباك ) or the **Shin Bet** (a two-letter Hebrew abbreviation of the name), is Israel's internal security service (similar to the British MI5 or the American FBI). Its motto is " _Magen veLo Yera'e_ " (Hebrew: מגן ולא יראה , lit. "Defender that shall not be seen" or "The unseen shield").

Also The **Directorate of Military Intelligence** (Hebrew: אגף המודיעין , _Agaf HaModi'in_ – lit. "the Intelligence Section"; Arabic: شعبة الاستخبارات العسكرية ), often abbreviated to **Aman** (Hebrew: אמ"ן ; Arabic: آمان ), is the central, overarching military intelligence body of the Israel Defense Forces. Aman was created in 1950, when the Intelligence Department was spun off from the IDF's General Staff (then, Agam: אג"ם); the Intelligence Department itself was composed largely of former members of the Haganah Intelligence Service (HIS). Aman is an independent service, and not part of the ground forces, navy or the Israeli Air Force.


	4. Farewell to Cenotia

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter four: A Farewell to Cenotia**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean area may or may not be getting the treatment here. Readers of a nationality/ethnicity who suspect it's their turn in this story are free to message me with clarifications, corrections and criticism. Thank you!**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka conclude getting a previously clueless kibbutz, set up by idealists of the Reg/Regina Shoe mentality, into a state where it can thrive. Under very strong hints from various influential people who suggest it might be a good idea if they continued their travels, and in Rivka's case pursued by a persistent Yenta, they make plans for the next leg of their cross-continental trek. Now read on…**_

 _ **Late February. A Kibbutz on the border of Cenotia and Klatch, in a disputed area known in antiquity as the Golem Heights.**_

 _ **Prologue: a cutscene in Ankh-Morpork. At the Patrician's Palace.**_

Lord Vetinari read the daily reports from embassies and intelligence operatives around the world. The Pegasus Service pilot who had delivered the latest collected batch from her assigned patrol run stood respectfully a short distance away from the desk, prepared to add any word-of-mouth as and when requested. Vetinari's secretary Rufus Drumknott stood back, attentive to his master's moods and quirks. There was silence in the Oblong Office, broken only by the rustling of paper. Periodically Vetinari made a marginal note.

"It seems that shipments of humanitarian assistance to Cenotia from Rimwards Howondaland have increased somewhat in recent months." Vetinari observed. "The fast clipper ship _De Vliegende Hovondalaandian_ was seen to dock at Tel Ari and was relieved of a large cargo of agricultural supplies, to be dispersed for peaceful and civil use only."

"There is a certain amount of popular sentiment for the Cenotians in White Howondaland, sir." Drumknott said. "The Vondalaander people feel a visceral connection to newcomers to the continent who are drawn by the ideal of a new life, building it from the ground upwards and fighting not only the climate, but also unsympathetic neighbours who want to drive them out again."

"Indeed, Drumknott. Indeed. And like their informal allies in the Zulu Empire, the Klatchians have discovered, on no less than three prior occasions, that the newcomers are somewhat _resistant_ to the idea of being driven out again. Which causes headaches for Klatch. And means Khufurah is forced to disperse _another_ large division of his armed forces to cover another threat-in-being. Tsk, tsk. Regrettable."

Vetinari smiled slightly.

"Prince Khufurah is a sincere and capable man. He leads a strong and powerful nation and is commendably sensible in many of the decisions he makes. Maintaining the integrity of his borders is an ongoing problem for him, surrounded as he is by difficult situations. Indeed, Hersheba and its shifting sands populated by the D'Reg race and other unruly tribes mean he has to keep a sizeable garrison there. Where the Rimwards of his country shades from desert into scrub, he finds the Central Howondalandian plains open up, and tribes such as the Apache range wide. He must maintain substantial forces there engaged in chasing a mobile and nomadic threat who travel light and who relish this sort of warfare. And of course, he has to be seen to sustain the Zulu Empire as an ally and a threat-in-being against the pugnacious people of Rimwards Howondaland. Then there is the ongoing drain represented by the tribal peoples of the Klatchistans who are, alas, resistant to being subjects of Klatch."

Vetinari shook his head.

"I wish him luck there. It is undeniable that the interests of the Disc are best served by Klatchistan being modernised and brought under _somebody's_ uncontested administration. May he expend many years and much of his resources in the attempt."

Vetinari smiled a satisfied smile.

"And today there is a report of a possible incident on the border with Cenotia. A place Klatch claims as a province still. Whilst today, hard experience somewhat deters Klatch from launching another invasion, they still feel the need to rattle scimitars in the direction of Cenotia. And I understand the current situation was provoked by indirect warfare. It appears to be the case that bandits, deniably sustained by the Klatchian authorities, are allowed to raid isolated farmsteads in Cenotia and are protected on their return with the booty by Klatchian border soldiers, who close the border against retaliatory raids or even legitimate inquiry and investigation. Cenotian forces, mindful of the need to avert renewed war, are ordered not to follow."

Vetinari sighed.

"Until fairly recently. It would appear the residents of one such farming commune have been galvanized into organising for retaliatory action. As they are not formally a part of Cenotia's armed forces, they cannot be easily ordered to cease and desist. I fear there is potential here for instability."

Vetinari's gaze took in the others in the room.

"The fact Khufurah is forced by circumstances to split his available forces over at least four borders, so that they cannot be concentrated to bring overwhelming force to bear in any one direction, is something of a good thing." he said. "But the idea of any full-scale war happening on one of these borders is not. And interested agencies in Cenotia, from the Institute of the Protective Shield, appear to be active here finding out what they can about a person who is currently in the Golem Heights. I understand a Miss Smith-Rhodes is currently present in the Golems. I also understand the ship that delivered the latest delivery of agricultural tools is owned, ultimately, by a Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes. This seeming coincidence interests me."

Drumknott frowned.

"Sir, previously, it has been axiomatic that where Miss Smith-Rhodes goes, trouble follows closely. But isn't she now semi-retired from active involvements and concentrating on her teaching work, and raising a family?"

Vetinari smiled.

"Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes is currently absorbed with the full-time demands of being a working mother. I wish her every happiness. However, the person the Institute wishes information on, as a matter of some urgency, is a miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes. Who I suspect will in the fullness of time gain a reputation which will at least equal that of her older sister."

Vetinari turned to the Pegasus pilot.

"I require you to discreetly collect a person who will be arriving here on the Carpet Service." He said. "She cannot fly directly into Cenotia as the Klatchians monopolise commercial carpet flights, and their relations with Cenotia preclude any direct flights. Outgoing mail, for instance, has to go across the border to Omnia to catch the carpet flights, or go by sea. You are to deliver her directly to this place… Gemalia… and are to convey my personal regards to Miss Smith-Rhodes. Advise her she is _not_ to start a war, if this is possible. If she and her associate can deal with the bandit problem within the bounds of normal legitimate self defence, I would be grateful. The person you are to fly in will be helpful in containing the situation in a way that confers the greatest advantage to all parties. Please proceed with all speed, Officer Romanoff. Thank you."

* * *

 _To: Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes,_

 _18 Spa Lane,_

 _Nap Hill,_

 _ANKH-MORPORK_

 _From: Miss Rivka-ben-Devorah, Licenced Assassin (late of Black Widow House, now travelling). At the settlement and kibbutz of Gimela, Cenotia._

Dear Johanna.

To pick up where I left off last letter.

It is a great honour to be informed that I received the Dagger of Honour for passing out at the top of my year following our Final Run. I'm sorry that by the time this was made official we were on the boat across the Circle Sea. I hope to be worthy of the Dark Council's unanimous verdict and accept that it was a very close decision between me and several other candidates. Mariella is philosophical at having been edged out and expresses surprise that she was so high in the considerations of the Dark Council. You must be proud.

I understand that the everlasting bag of sweets Bekki called into being via the dreidel caused some damage to your kitchen. So it was apparently like that thing with the Summer Lady's cornucopia, that if left unattended it will carry on in a default mode of calling sweets into existence unless switched off? And when the pressure of chocolate sweets in the kitchen cupboard built up and the door was blown off its hinges…. Oh dear. At least Ponder thinks it is now contained at the university in a drawer of the Cabinet of Curiosities, where some sort of different laws of nature apply. And all the children in the street, and indeed the neighbouring streets, got a free bag of sweets each. So something came of it.

Today, down at the kibbutz, was another team session of clearing stubborn thorn bushes and other weeds from the hillside where Mariella thinks terraced vineyards can usefully be established.

It was inspiring to watch a line of people methodically clearing the slope. Getting practice in the weight and balance of a machete, and learning practically how the weight and swing of one's upper body can be directed through the arm into a blow that severs even the toughest and woodiest stem. Some of our more thoughtful people have asked things like "Couldn't this be dangerous if you were to want to hit another person with a blade like this?", to which Mariella smiled approvingly and said "hold that thought!"

There is a hillside near here where at some point a cave was excavated and lined with stone to serve as a sarcophagus. The bodies it contained are long gone – tomb robbers, probably – but Mariella got the Dwarfs to devise a heavy door with a strong but unobtrusive lock. The crossbows and pole-arms are stored there. The Dwarfs think, given time, they could devise a really good doorway, with a rolling stone in place of a door. Nothing gets out of a vault like that, miss, they said. You'd have to have Supernatural on your side to get through a door like that, or be a God, or something.

Miss Band would be interested in the old ruins here. I enclose sketches and brief descriptions for her. Leah the shepherdess shrugged and says there was one not so far away that was full of old scrolls. Got used for kindling, apparently.

Mariella got the armoury set up as a priority thing almost as soon as the weapons arrived. This was just as well, as a day or two later we got Official Visitors. Some very serious-looking people who were keen to see what we were doing. Somehow they did not look as if they belonged to the Department of Agriculture. They were really keen to find out more about me and Mariella.

I've heard about the Institute, the Protective and Invisible Shield people, and while I'd never met anybody from the Institute before, you kind of know _mensch_ like that straight away. Mariella worked it out too, but then your people have the Bureau of State Security, yes?

They claimed they were here to take depositions about the theft of livestock. Everyone got loud about this and pointed out that was months ago, _oi vey_ , you people are quick, aren't you?

One of the guys was in uniform, from the Border Security Force, and tried to quiet things down by saying in the circumstances they were going to try and run some more patrols down here, but they're a small force, Cenotia has a long border, and they can't be _everywhere_. Have you people set up a Hagunah yet?

"That's like a _volkskommando_?" Mariella said. "It works that way at home. Small regular army, large reserve of civilian volunteers. My father commands the local Kommando."

"Ah, yes." said one of the Institute people. "That would be a Mr Andreas Smith-Rhodes, known as Barbarossa, who served with distinction in the regular army and was Mayor of the Piemberg district for three terms?"

"You know about my family." Mariella said. Complete strangers with a purposeful look who've done their research. Not good.

"Your family are well-known." he said. "And a Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes is regarded as a friend and a benefactor of this country."

The way he said it, it came out like "ruthless mercenary who will sell us lots of weapons at a reasonable rate." Is that a fair assessment of your Uncle Charles?

"And try not to look at me like that, Miss Smith-Rhodes." he said. "As your older sister and your teachers at the Guild will no doubt tell you, _every_ country employs people who make it their business to find out things. How is Henri le Balouard, by the way?"

"Ah. Dark Clerks." Mariella said.

"Exactly, Miss Smith-Rhodes. Dark Clerks. Now if we can speak privately somewhere?"

We found a private place while the uniformed man circulated outside and listened to peoples' accounts of the raid.

"I'll come quickly to the point." said the Institute man, who said his name was Benjamin. "the government of Cenotia understands you're setting up a kibbutz in a difficult place. You have suffered an injustice. But you are not to cross the border into Klatch to seek restitution. The government doesn't want a situation where a border conflict could ignite something more serious. There have been communications to this effect from Ankh-Morpork. Where this country's bank accounts are."

"But well done on setting up the border posts." said the other, whose name was apparently Gideon. "That shows initiative and a certain _chutzpah_ , miss ben-Devorah."

"We could do with more of that." Benjamin agreed. "It makes things clearer if the Klatchians stray onto our side. We can then demonstrate to the world we are not the guilty party."

He nodded down to a couple of iconograph machines which he'd left on the table.

"Government property, but, oi vey, everybody's forgetful. Also business cards for the local newspapers in Tel Ari. Contacts."

We understood. Get clear proof of Klatchian incursions. Get it published in the papers. There's more than one way of fighting a war.

"I have a cousin who works for newspapers in Rimwards Howondaland." Mariella said. "She is also "our correspondent in Rimwards Howondaland" to the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_."

"Miss Suki van der Graaf." Gideon said, with the sort of smugness you want to slap. "I told you. We know about your wider family."

"And that's the official line." Benjamin said. "Speaking unofficially. We believe the same bandits raided a kibbutz higher up the Tracey valley. If two graduates of the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Assassins can contrive to find them and hit them where it hurts – and get incontestable proof of their guilt – we wouldn't be inclined to investigate too closely. You'd be doing everybody a favour, in fact. But get that proof. And if it goes wrong, you're on your own."

"Is this an official contract?" I demanded. "If so, how much after Guild tax?"

Benjamin smiled.

"We'll be watching your career with interest, miss ben-Devorah. Your price will be a contract to work for the Institute. We can always use people like you. Good pay, bonuses, health insurance, holiday pay, pension…"

"I'll think about it." I said.

"Come back to us. When your gap year's over. The door will be open."

Mariella was scrutinising the third person. He was silent, watching, listening. And he didn't look Cenotian. He was blond, for one thing.

Then she started humming a song. The anthem I heard your people singing on the night of the Final Run. The one which, as you said, is full of the usual sort of inflammatory _dreckscheiss_ which inspires impressionable people to do bad things because they feel they are in the right. But which still manages to send a tingle down the spine and makes you feel part of a people and you want to get up and join the singing. A **dangerous** national anthem. My understanding is not perfect, and you will of course know the Vondalaans better, but…

 _Come, farmer-fighters be now heroes!_

 _The Day of Reckoning is near!_

 _The foe tramples on our fields,_

 _Let them our crossbows hear!_

This third man was too good at his trade to sing along, but conditioning is a hard thing. His lips started to vocalise the words, then he caught himself. I didn't need to understand Vondalaans to know Mariella was saying

"You're from bloody BOSS, aren't you?"

Apparently a man from the local Embassy sent along to report on Mariella. Not a Verkramp, but one of the cleverer ones, who put the clowns like Verkramp in the foreground so people think BOSS is only full of ridiculous clowns. This diverts attention away from the truly dangerous people every Secret Service needs to be effective.

There was a short conversation in Vondalaans. Mariella told me afterwards it boiled down to "Exactly, Miss Smith-Rhodes. And don't forget when you return Home you are obliged to perform two years of National Service. The Bureau will be watching. Now go out and perform a service for our allies and friends."

Not good. After they left, we discussed what we should do.

* * *

Dear Johanna.

After the dark serious men from two Secret Services visited, I have to admit I was angry. Attracting the specific attention of BOSS is not a nice thing. And I felt we were being manipulated into a course of action. I wished to end this swiftly and to get my life back. I also heard the little voice in my head, a memory of Miss Band, telling me anger is a good thing if you master it and use it productively.

Rivka started humming the _other_ bloody song, I now realise to lighten the mood and make us laugh.

" _I never met a nice Rimwards Howondalandian, And that's not bloody surprising, man, 'cos we're a bunch of arrogant bastards who hate black people…"_

It fitted the anonymous man from BOSS. I decided to ask Cousin James about him.

Then there was a kibbutz meeting. A two-thirds majority had called it, apparently. It was quorate. It took time away from proper work, but I recall it was a chance to use anger productively.

In the big dining hall, Tobias challenged my authority as leader and demanded we return to the old rotating-leader policy. He was supported. Apparently I am too autocratic. Some of the more religious Cenotians started making noises about a woman's place in society, and how have we come to be led by a Gentile woman anyway?

Our new Dwarfish people stirred uncomfortably at this. Then their leader, whose name was Gudrun, stood up and put his – her? - hand on their axe-hilt.

"It's like this." Gudrun said. "We came here hungry. Miss Smith-Rhodes here saw we got fed and got a berth here for the night. She's good. She plays fair. She's your _dezka-knick_. She's _ **our**_ _dezka-knick._ And in Dwarf circles, being the _dezka-knick means_ something. You get a good one, you don't go changing it every five minutes because you fancy a change and you think it should be somebody else's turn with the ball. You do that and you're sliding down the inclement fault-line between two strata, right? And when you do that, you get a cave-in. Everything goes. So far as we're concerned, she stays. She's good. And Miss Rivka here looks the sort who's got an opinion to express."

Things become easier when a lot of Dwarfs with axes are on your side.

But I was still angry. And I let them have it. I pointed out that to be farmers in a hostile place with an enemy over the hill means that like it or not, you have to fight. Everything. I told them about Howondaland, about my people, about how we tamed a continent starting from knowing nothing, about how you have to put the farm tools down every so often and fight Zulus (and yes. I am the only one of our parents' five children who has not fought the Zulus, that little disagreement with Michael N'Boto back in First Year excepted). I told them about the Volkskommando, about the War of Independence, about the citizen militia that is called a Hagunah here, and then it came to me to sing. I'd used the old anthem to draw out the BOSS man earlier, and now it all came out.

Remember Heroes' Day, that fell in Ankh-Morpork when our parents were here just after Bekki's birth? Many people from Home were there for the trial and execution of the four criminals who wounded me and would have killed you. I think of it when I see the scars on my leg from the crossbow bolt. Anyway, there was that huge Heroes' Day braii at the Embassy and a service of remembrance, and wily clever Uncle Pieter got our father up to lead the singing of the _Vondalaandshartslied,_ and with Father conducting the singing with his beer mug and Mother for once not telling him he was making a spectacle of himself, it became something special and almost magical. Eight hundred people. Singing the anthem. Even Miss Band, who is usually hard to move and was there as a guest. Black servants joined in. I mean, Black servants. Singing that song. Even people passing in the street stopped and joined in as best they could. As you say, that anthem is toxic but it has _power_. **(1)**

Rivka said I must have been touched by something. It wasn't in a language they understood but there is something about that song. They all joined in, even if it was only humming the lines. Some of them started making their own words up, in Cenotian or Morporkian. I saw guitars and the piano picking up the tune. _And they got what it meant. Through a song. I'd broken through._

Gudrun the dwarf was wiping a tear away afterwards and saying "That was _hole music,_ miss. From the heart. We've got to put Dwarfish words to that."

"Yes," said another Dwarf, who was taken with emotion. "What that song said to me was that when you're standing behind the door of the mine and some bloody Trolls are kicking it in. You grabs a mattock and you stands and fights. 'Cos there's no alternative."

And Rivka said "Mariella Smith-Rhodes. You are bloody dangerous. Just do not ever lead an army. Unless I'm with you."

"Okay, farmer-fighters. Let's plan a day of reckoning."

Then I saw who had walked in, unobserved. She was alternately taking iconographs, talking to people, and scribbling notes. Olga Romanoff was there too, leaning on the door with her arms folded and smiling to herself. But cousin Suki was there. Suki. The journalist.

"Pegasus?" I asked. Olga nodded.

"Vetinari wasn't wrong." Olga said. "He thought where there's a Smith-Rhodes sister, there'd be trouble brewing. You seem to attract it somehow. Tell me. Who are you planning to invade? I've brought you a War Correspondent."

"Klatch." I said, simply.

Suki looked up and whistled.

" _What a story!"_ she said.

* * *

 _To: Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes,_

 _18 Spa Lane,_

 _Nap Hill,_

 _ANKH-MORPORK_

 _From: Miss Rivka-ben-Devorah, Licenced Assassin (late of Black Widow House, now travelling). At the settlement and kibbutz of Gimela, Cenotia._

Dear Johanna.

That night, Mariella and I got into working clothes and selected the "agricultural tools" we needed for what she described as a bit of night gardening. I took her down a route I'd explored before, passing a couple of tired, bored and disinterested Klatchian patrols who just wanted to wrap it all up and get back to barracks. Soldiers like that are so easy to evade. Second year students could do it.

We skirted the military camp and discovered, without too much surprise, that the bandits we were looking for had set up their tents next door. A bit of discreet scouting and listening told us what we needed to know and which came as no surprise: they were acting with the approval of the Klatchian government as a means of making life hard for Cenotians on the border and pursuing the cold war by deniable means. We'd discovered one of the iconographs the Institute men forgot to take away with them was a really good one with an infra-octarine night flash. We got lots of pictures of bandits and Klatchian soldiers fraternising, including Captain al-Hambra fraternising with the bandit chief. I'd reminded Mariella that I did Klatchian at school and therefore if we got up really close, we could eavesdrop. And it was just so easy. All the Klatchians might have seen if they'd been looking would be two bandits in big cloaks coming into the camp and looking for somewhere to sleep. But they weren't looking. Really bad camp disciplines there. They were not expecting to be attacked, evidently, this far inside Klatch with the diligent soldiers sealing the road in.

We discovered they were planning to raid our kibbutz again, having allowed a few months for those dozy Cenotian sons-and-daughters-of-camels to get more livestock to make it worth a repeat visit.

"No point in taking everything at once, offendi. A little at a time."

The new raid would take place at the new moon. Just enough light to see by. Two nights hence. We scouted both camps and got an idea of where interesting places were for us to revisit on a later night, then got back to the kibbutz.

In the next two days we got a plan together and got key people briefed. We also accelerated Hagunah training for the kibbutzniks. Oi vey! A drill sergeant would give up in despair. We didn't even bother to try complex foot drill like getting people to march in step. With Cenotians? No point. We focused on the important things. And got a few things in place where we thought they would be useful.

Your Cousin Suki squealed when she saw the night iconograph. Apparently she's heard of such machines but has never seen one. Her editor, the one who was asked by Charles Smith-Rhodes to despatch her here, won't buy any as they're too expensive. I said she might as well take it with her when she leaves. The Institute has a deep budget for such things. She was also delighted by the pictures we had taken.

"Clear evidence of collusion between Klatchian security forces and bandits." She said. "Evidence of corruption in Klatchian governmental services. This identified officer taking a cut of the proceeds of theft and offering succour to thieves crossing the border. Oh, this will be front page! In two countries! Three, if the Ha'aretz takes the story! Can you get me up to the border posts where you nearly got arrested? I need pictures!"

After that, the actual reckoning with the bandit gang was pretty much anticlimactic. You will be pleased to know the devices you kindly sent to us worked perfectly, by the way. I made sure on the expected night that David and Leah, our shepherds, were up in the hills watching the expected line of attack of our foes. When we saw the signal rockets in the sky, it was time to mobilise our people. It was also essential to take photographs which conclusively demonstrated armed Klatchians had crossed the border with the intent of causing trouble. Again not a problem. Suki van der Graaf, with an armed escort for her protection, took these.

As for the gang. We waited until they were in a stretch of the trail with high hills on both sides. Then we used an idea Mariella had gleaned from the Cenotian holy book. (She says when it's the only thing to read, you read it thoroughly). We had moved empty barrels to the top of the ridges on either side of the road. We fixed thunderflashes and other interesting devices inside. Then we lit them and rolled them down the hill into the horsemen **.(2)** Some nice big bangs and a lot of panic. Lots of scared horses running out of control. Nice.

Then Mariella and I and the best men - and dwarfs - got in among them and dealt with things. It didn't take too long. The few who got away didn't go very far before they ran into a lot of crossbows. Nobody actually hit very much, they hadn't had too much practice, but then they didn't need to. We got the prisoners who could still stand to carry the wounded ones, had people out rounding up the horses, and the rest is, as you might say, chapter and verse in a Chronicle.

* * *

Hi Johanna!

After all that, dealing with the bandits was quick and easy. When they realised they were surrounded they gave up easily, and we got them tied and marching out under escort. Suki was taking lots and lots of iconographs and I wondered where Rivka had got to. Then when I was starting to worry, she turned up leading a horse that had a man slung over it, a richly dressed Klatchian officer tied by his hands and feet. He was unconscious.

"Captain al-Hambra." she said. "Dealt with him. Personally."

I should tell you Olga Romanoff flew back in with a passenger; Matron Igorina. Olga just said it was appropriate, somehow, and anyway Vetinari had suggested it. He thought it might be useful. (How does that man **KNOW**?) By the way, her Feegle was complaining about having missed another battle. The poor little man was most put out. But Feegles are a weapon I would use sparingly. Even on bandits.

Igorina said hello.

"Do you know, I thought life would be less interesting after your sister retired from active contract work to raise her children." she said. "But I can see the family tradition lives on. Where there's a Smith-Rhodes sister, there's work for Igors. Your family is so dependable."

And she set about tending the injured. Suki took iconographs to demonstrate that Cenotia knows how to decently treat prisoners.

"I thought that too." she said. " Life's boring now Johanna's trying to be a housewife." Suki shook her head. "She'll never manage it. But then you come along. You got me a story, Mariella!"

And suspiciously quickly, Cenotian regular soldiers moved in to secure the border and guard against retaliation. Just as suspiciously, Gideon and Benjamin returned. They thanked Rivka and I and conferred with Suki as to the sort of article she intends to write. By now you must have read it. It has a title something like TWO DAYS IN A CENOTIAN KIBBUTZ ATTACKED BY ENEMY OUT OF KLATCH! HEROIC BATTLE FOUGHT! HERO FARMER-WARRIORS DEFEAT KLATCHIAN TROOPS!

The gentlemen from the Institute were well pleased. They have said they will again forget an expensive iconographic machine, with the new night-flash, which was probably lost due to enemy action on a battlefield. Benjamin said this whilst smiling at Suki, who was wearing the iconograph around her neck on its strap.

"Keep it." Gideon said. We've got a budget."

He nodded to Rivka.

"The door will be open, miss ben-Devorah. Just knock. it will be answered."

So no war has happened, the Klatchians are embarrassed in the eyes of the world and deterred from further attacks, Cenotia is seen as the wounded party, and the kibbutz is better off by thirty or so very good horses. I have suggested they retain a stallion – an UNCUT stallion, you can never be too specific – and four or five mares. They can sell the rest and use the money wisely, and the horses they retain will in time make more horses.

The people here have a sense of place and purpose, they know a little more about farming, the Dwarfs are digging their mine and the spoil is being used as building material, and our work here is, I think, done. We are making plans to move on.

Did I mention that David the shepherd boy taught me the principles of using a sling? He was most scathing when I said the weapon is new to me.

"Gevalt. The big-shot Assassin from Ankh-Morpork doesn't know how to use a sling?"

"I don't." I said. "Teach me."

I saw him bring down a Klatchian horseman, a huge troll of a man, with a single stone. The klatchian giant even grinned, got off his horse, and invited David to give it his best shot. Oh dear. Over-confidence. I was impressed. There's always something new to learn. And the weapon is so simple and ammunition for it is everywhere.

Oh, and the morning after the battle, Yenta Goldberg turned up. I was most surprised to see she is young, of brown-blonde hair dressed in a strange style which I suspect is reliant on much setting lotion, and at first she seems like a vaguely good-natured woman in her middle to late thirties. But she has a mind like a steel trap and a determination as directed as dragon's flame. And the target for the flame is Rivka.

"You know, I'm trying to work out if you're a Poochie, a Snookums or a Schmoopie!" she said, assessing Rivka. "No, definitely a Schmoopie. Now listen to your yenta, Schmoopie. What are you doing, nearly nineteen and no man in your life? And your poor mother who asked me to come talk to you, she's _distracted,_ you would not want to break your poor mother's heart, would you, Schmoopie? I don't read you as being so heartless! Now all this wearing black and carrying a big sword and killing people for a living is all very well, and I don't knock Assassination, it's a  profession, but you have to think of your future…"

Much later, Rivka came to me. She looked haunted and worried.

"We've got to get out of here, Mariella!"

"Better pack, then." I said. "Schmoopie."

And so tomorrow, after a farewell party at which I stand down as kibbutz leader, we move on. Despite the obvious dangers and people who may be looking for us, we'd quite like to visit Klatch. It will be interesting.

I enclose a captured Klatchian officer's scimitar with gold chasing and jewelled inlay as my contribution to your weapons wall. There is also an officer's helmet with spiked turban, silvered aventail and gilded ornamentation. These things are too cumbersome to carry with me, and perhaps you could display the trophies for me? My first spoils of war - a rite of passage!

All my love to Bekki and baby Famke.

Your sister

Mariella

* * *

 **(1)** Listen to Bok van Blerk singing the _Afrikaanerhart_ anthem. You can imagine a Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes , an Afrikaaner Brian Blessed, roaring it out to a packed crowd. Damn. That's one bloody ear-worm of a song.

 **(2)** See Judges 7:13 - Gideon arrived just as a man was telling a friend his dream. "I had a dream," he was saying. "A round loaf of barley bread came tumbling into the Midianite camp. It struck the tent with such force that the tent overturned and collapsed." There's another quote in there too, about lighted fire-barrels rolled into the enemy camp. Still searching.

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_


	5. making a mark in Klatch

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Five:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka conclude getting a previously clueless kibbutz, set up by idealists of the Reg/Regina Shoe mentality, into a state where it can thrive. Under very strong hints from various influential people who suggest it might be a good idea if they continued their travels, and in Rivka's case pursued by a persistent Yenta, they make plans for the next leg of their cross-continental trek. Now read on…**_

 _ **Late February/March. In Hubwards Klatch, not far from the borders with Cenotia and Omnia.**_

Prologue: It is a late afternoon with the sun setting. We see a vista of well-tilled fields and occasional small farmsteads typical of the more settled part of Klatch. In the distance a group of palm trees sway in a gentle breeze near a water source. The tallest buildings visible in any direction are minarets with graceful towers rising to rounded points. Two travellers, dressed in graceful flowing robes and baggy clothing favoured for comfort by those who travel under the Klatchian sun, are surveying the way in front of them. Their lower faces are concealed in veils to screen noses and mouths against dust and they wear headdresses which conceal their hair. They can be taken, at a casual glance, to be young men. They must be young men; in Klatchian society, women do not travel unescorted. There are big social prohibitions concerning this. And in any case, both are carrying swords. It is frowned upon for women to carry weapons in this country. It is not seemly.

They are in any case obviously old friends who are relaxed in each other's company. In such a friendship, long silences are never normally awkward. One, the smaller and slighter one, tuned to the other and eventually spoke, adjusting the fit of the eye protection both were wearing against the unforgiving light of a Klatchian day.

"It's 106 miles to Al-Abasta, we got two full camels, half a pack of cigarettes, it's getting dark... and we're wearing sunglasses."

The other one considered this, then nodded, and said "Hit it."

The camels were duly hit and protestingly lumbered into forward motion. Then the taller of the two looked across.

"Rivka? Neither of us actually _smokes_."

The more petite one shrugged.

"Sorry. Don't know where that came from. But it sounded right."

The two friends rode on into the sunset.

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

I don't know when I'll be able to get this to you as we are pretty much nomadic at the moment and have no forwarding address. Besides, I like to speak freely in my letters home. There is the practical consideration that any mail addressed to Ankh-Morpork from Klatch may be intercepted and read, especially if addressed to people the Klatchian authorities find to be of interest. People like you, perhaps.

It is also the case that Rivka is definitely here illegally. Cenotian nationals are not welcome in Klatch, are not allowed entry, and the relationship between the two nations makes ourselves and the Zulu Empire seem like the very best of friends. She is likely to be considered a spy and detained, with all that entails. This amuses her and she considers it to be a minor difficulty. (I suspect friends in Cenotia called Gideon and Benjamin gave her some contact names to memorise, in the case of difficulty. She had a long and definitely private talk with them before we left Gemalia).

And after events in Gemalia and the publication of our names in the newspapers as people who facilitated a certain course of action, I also suspect the Klatchians may be actively looking for a red-haired white-skinned person with a Rimwards Howondalandian accent who will at the very least be deported from their country. Any letters we try to post in the normal way will be, I suspect, advertising our presence and giving a broad hint as to where to find us. I am keeping a lookout for "WANTED!" posters bearing our likenesses.

There is also little Guild presence in this country outside the big cities. The protocol is that what would normally be Guild business is handled in Klatch by the Hashishim. I understand there is a mutual understanding between Assassins and Hashishim, and we respect each other's spheres of interest. Whether they would offer support in the event of difficulties is something I would not like to test, however.

Therefore I am writing in the form of a journal which I will send from a safe place when I can: this may not be until we have passed out of Klatch into perhaps Ymitury or Syrrit or Laotan. (which in turn places constraints on where we go next: I know we are not all that welcome in Matabeleland and doubly so if you happen to be called Smith-Rhodes, which compounds the offence! I have you to thank for this, by the way? I understand a special place awaits you in the Execution Pits should you be caught in that country. And the Matabels also tend to be very emphatic with any blood relatives of the guilty party, just to make the point that they're annoyed. So I think it wisest to avoid that country. Here, we can pose as Klatchian. There, we cannot easily pretend to be black-skinned. Not without causing more offence **(1).)**

It comes as a surprise to learn Klatch is not all desert. Here in the Hubwards of the land, the nation is well-tilled rich soil, both grazing and arable, especially along the banks of the major rivers, with many crops of corn, maize, potatoes, wahoonies, three kinds of cabbage, that is, kohlrahbi, kale and pak choi, and plantations of peppers, olives (black, green, and the special one with the red core **(2)),** many varieties of coffee beans, which the farmers are pleased to sell at the roadside, five varieties of citrus fruit (the oranges are almost as good as the ones we grow at Home!) - and I was a farmer for too long in Cenotia, and am currently sensitised to recognise these things. It is easy to see the truth of what we were taught in Ancient History, that these rivers were the bread-baskets of the old Ankh-Morporkian Empire which then subsumed Klatch.

We are heading for the oases at Tzit and Otherz, where the true desert begins. I will close now as the Call for Prayer is coming from the minaret. We must pretend to be Klatchians to avert suspicion. This is no problem for me as we were raised in the Temple of Io and Offler. Prayer to Offler, who is after all a Howondalandian God, comes easily to me. Rivka tends to pretend prayer, with her fingers crossed and an apology to The Most High G-d -m on her lips.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

I agree with Mariella that we are going to have to be very careful concerning any letters or packages we send back to Ankh-Morpork. The authorities do not know we're here and I'm happy for that to carry on being the case.

I will keep this account as and when I can and when I'm able, I will post it back to you.

We crossed the border the night after our farewell party at the kibbutz in Gemalia, where just about everybody begged Mariella to stay on as leader, even the ones who had resented her forward blunt manner and wanted her gone. Possibly under the influence of drink, seventeen men at various points proposed marriage to me. I suspect Yenta Goldberg had been talking to them. I politely refused them all. David the shepherd boy said he really wanted Mariella to convert to Cenotianism so he could then ask her to marry him. As he is currently under thirteen, it was not difficult for her to turn him down kindly.

Yenta Goldberg saw us off with the words "Take a little time, Schmoopie. I can afford to wait on you for a month or two, but I will be back." Therefore I wished to go to a place where Cenotians are not welcomed and where even she cannot easily follow to remind me the clock is ticking and my ovaries will never get any younger.

Slipping across the border – Mariella calls it the "Kaplyn" (I have checked the spelling) – was so very easy. The _kaplyn_ is at the moment full of troops of both nationalities. But Cenotian and Klatchian patrols are so careful not to encounter each other and risk an Incident, that they are being circumspect and will retire rather than confront. Therefore slipping through them, even with laden packhorses, was complete simplicity.

Before moving on we left a few little surprises, of the sort you taught us so thoroughly, in the Klatchian army camp. It will be assumed that the fire which destroyed two permanent buildings and many tents would be down to accident and perhaps a stray cigarette. We took care to leave tell-tale cigarette butts (from cigarettes of Klatchian manufacture!) near the sites of interest. They may be able to recover a lot of the metal parts and bolt-heads from their burnt-out armoury and send them for recycling, but they will find it difficult to fight any sort of combat without crossbows, bolts or halberds. I view this as insurance against any sort of reprisal attack by the Klatchians in the near future. Those weapons will take a little time to replace.

As we know that at some point we will need to cross a desert, we traded our horses in for camels plus tack plus waterskins (lots of them). The horses were ones we liberated from the Klatchian Army, so selling them back to Klatchians was satisfying. I know we Assassins are prohibited from anything that could be mistaken for "theft" as this raises demarcation issues with the Thieves' Guild. But we were working pro-bono and performing a public service. Government service, in fact, as representatives of both our governments – and indirectly, the Patrician - gave explicit approval. The Guild may want to suggest a retrospective contract with the Cenotian administration for our services? This is only fair. Far be it from me to suggest a figure, but for the task involved, ten thousand dollars (to be split two ways) after Guild tax does not appear excessive. Just a suggestion, you understand. We do consider the horses to be legitimate salvage as they were found wandering without riders after a battle, after all! Somebody had to do the courteous and correct thing and tend to their welfare.

After we had left the border behind, there was less sign of anything military and things took on a more pleasingly normal appearance. There was absolutely no sign of Klatch hurrying more men and supplies to the border region, although several despatch riders passed us going in both directions. They paid us no heed, however.

Before we left, Mariella prepared a large heavy parcel containing captured weapons – legitimate prizes of combat, the Guild has no issues with this – and prepared them for posting to you. I hope there is room on your living room wall for them! She selected only the best, previously owned by a junior officer of the Klatchian cavalry who rode alongside the bandits in his best uniform. They passed into Mariella's hands in the customary manner. (after iconographs were taken to show that Klatchian military personnel were "advising" the bandit irregulars.)

As we had access to an iconograph and it was still loaded with paper, paints and a reliable imp, I got away from Yenta Goldberg and took a lot of pictures of the presumed-ancient ruins for the personal attention of Miss Band. As regards travelling in Klatch, I am grateful to her for advising us the ruins of the city of Tacticum are not really all that interesting and it's played out for archaeology. Besides, it's a tourist trap and swarming with Agateans with iconographs, she said. So we can give that one a miss. There are likely to be more interesting and less travelled places to see. She will have received the package by now?

We are aiming at the twin oases of Tzit and Otherz which lie on the edges of the desert. Local caravans set out from there and we should be able to agree passage with one. Depending on where it is going, our next destination could be any of Syrrit, Ur, Elharib or Ymitury. Ymitury and Laotan, of course, offer a gateway, after crossing The Mountains of the Sun, into the Central Howondalandian Plains and after that the three mutually interlocked nations of Howondaland. Mariella points out she would be in real trouble if we strayed into either Matabeleland/S'Belinde, or into the Zulu Empire, where I understand red-haired white people called Smith-Rhodes would have a brief and eventful time. (What exactly did you DO in both countries?) It appears as if, once we pass the plains and the tropical jungle to the Rimwards, our best landfall is going to be the interestingly named state of Smith-Rhodesia. Mariella says she hasn't yet been there. She thinks it is going to be a personally strange experience. I can see this might be somewhat existential and maybe even self-referential to her. I wonder how I would feel to visit a place named after my great-great grandfather. (Is it one, or two, "greats" that separate you both from Sir Cecil?) But to my best knowledge, there is no place on the Disc named Reuben-Solomon-Isaacovitz- Bechsteinia. I am happy about this.

I am writing this during our stop for the night. It is impossible to write while on the back of a moving camel, I have discovered. As we approach the Desert, human settlements are becoming fewer and further between. We could ask for hospitality, which local custom apparently grants for up to three days, but it is accepted that travelling parties will make camp in the open.

We have selected a good site and, as I hope neither of us is a complete fool, we will set little alarms nearby to alert us to anyone else getting too close. Again, thank you for the Devices you sent to Gemala. We have a good selection of them with us and they will be used as perimeter defences around our encampment, which is in an easily defensible place offering a good line of escape if necessary. I anticipate these will be unexpired in the morning, so they can be made safe and repacked for use next time. As it is down to me to make evening meal and coffee, I will close this journal now. Mariella has haggled for some native coffee beans she will send to you at the earliest opportunity. For myself, I will be brewing a simple Lava bean brew. **(3)**

* * *

It was an interesting night last night. Nights here can get surprisingly cold. So even wrapped in two blankets and sleeping near the fire, we still slept light and kept weapons to hand.

Which meant we both awoke when the thunderflash went off. We both had throwing knives immediately available, and I had the Cenotian sling I'd had lessons in at Gemala. One presumed thief was rolling on the ground moaning and holding his ears. I left him for Rivka. As for the one who was running away, quite fast, I wondered if I could. I got a stone into the pouch of the sling and whirled it, as David had taught me, then picked the moment to let go. I had another stone ready to go, but there was no need. The stone clipped off the side of the running man's head and he dropped like, well, a stone. After making sure they were the only two, and checking he was really unconscious, I disarmed him (a rather nice ornamented curved knife and matching scabbard, which I may keep, although I could post it back to you for the trophy wall), and dragged him back to the camp by his feet. Which is not nice. Rarely washed Klatchian feet in sandals. Uggh.

We tied the two together and let it be known we were not amused. Rivka talked to them in Klatchian. I realised they were looking at me and realised: my head covering had slipped and they were seeing pale skin and red hair. There were now two people who had seen that I was not a Klatchian. Rivka, with her darker skin and hair colour, can pass for Klatchian. I cannot.

One of the prisoners said something. Rivka looked at me, smiled and replied. I regretted not having studied Klatchian at school, but there are only so many hours in the week: you cannot do everything and you have to choose.

"Errr?" I said.

One of the prisoners grinned. Rivka made the universal "What can you do with her?" shrug and said something simple.

"They think you're from Ur" she said, in a low voice. "Around here that explains a lot."

There was some more interrogation. Then one of the prisoners made a remark that sounded coarse. Rivka scowled, kicked him in the head, and bowled him over. She said something sharp in Klatchian to reinforce the point.

"Just pointed out. We are _not_ embankments, levees, holders-back-of-water, or of that ilk. Just because we happen to be two young women who choose to travel together. Hmmph."

"Okay. So what do we do?"

"Pack the camels. Break camp. Then we ride off in _that_ direction. So they can see if anyone asks them."

We set to. Early light was breaking. The two thieves watched us with sullen expressions. Apparently they weren't happy about having been disarmed. Well, we weren't happy about them trying to rob us.

"Did I mention you're from Ur?" Rivka said. "They believe anything about people from Ur. Anything odd or strange you do. You're from Ur. That's a semi-autonomous caliphate in the Klatchian Empire, by the way. To the Rimwards and Turnwise of here."

"So they think I'm Klatchian?" I asked.

"No. They think you're from Ur. Still a subject of the seraph, but just foreign enough for it to explain a lot. And he didn't find the red hair strange, either. Said something about an oddly-named place _._ _Chandwa al-sher Alahmir,_ or something. Asked if you had family there. We'll have to find out more about it. Help me dismantle the traps, would you? Thanks."

We set off again, leaving the two thieves tied to a tree at the roadside where somebody was sure to pass on a fairly well-travelled road, and let them see us riding back to the Hubwards. Once over the horizon, we scouted for a parallel route some miles away and then resumed our journey Rimwards. People would now know two strange women were travelling together dressed as men. But at least we both passed for local. Or from Ur. In the fierce heat of the noon sun where nothing moves, hopefully including sneak thieves, we watered the camels and then set up an awning. We fell asleep under it for a few hours.

* * *

 **(1** ) Debate continues in Ankh-Morpork as to whether or not the Black and White Minstrels constitute legitimate entertainment, or if their form of very prescriptive vaudeville, performed according to a time-honoured set of rules, protocols and stage rituals, is in fact a specialised form of mime and clowning and is properly the purview of the Fools' Guild. A form of entertainment where white-skinned singers and comedians don exaggerated makeup to make them look like caricatures of black-skinned men, who then perform with dancers and singers who are white-skinned women, has also raised more than eyebrows in the City. Ankh-Morpork these days has a growing minority population of black Howondalandians, many of who have expressed displeasure at comments like "Oi! Sambo! What about a song? Give us Vieux River!" Indeed, nations like Matabeleland and the Zulu Empire have made informal protests to Vetinari, and the penalty for any Minstrel show trying to tour in the Zulu homeland involves an inevitable assegai delivered with extreme critical prejudice. Matabeleland has said the Minstrels are always welcome to play before a packed house at the Execution Pits. _**Do not do blackface in parts of Howondaland. You have been warned.**_ Paradoxically, this stilted and over-exaggerated form of entertainment is popular, with some restrictions, in the apartheid state of Rimwards Howondaland. Which only goes to show **… (1:1)**

 **(1:1)** it is held to be so theatrically ridiculous that it cannot possibly bring apartheid into disrepute. And since the male performers are self-evidently white under the slap, there is no problem _at all_ concerning their being seen to sing and dance with white women. Just don't use it to send any coded subversive messages about black equality and we'll get on just fine, bro. Kiff.

 **(2)** A triumph for Unseen University's Department of Extreme Horticulture, where Professor Pennysmart reasoned that olives and pimento peppers are both plants, and if an olive could be bred that _already_ had the streak of red pepper running through the middle, it would streamline the process somewhat. Refined and made safe by Doctor Bellamy of the Guild of Assassins, at the urgent prompting of her neighbour Professor Ponder Stibbons, who could see trouble brewing. This joint enterprise is now a revenue-earner for both parties involved, although the usual sorts of people are protesting about manipulation of the very fundamental stuff of which plants are made. Doctor Bellamy replied that "manipulating the very fundamental stuff of which plants are made" is _exactly_ what the human race has already been doing for several thousand years and most of our food crops today are the end result of lots of such manipulation, "so if you want to go back to nature and hunt and forage among un-manipulated plants for your sustenance, then _do_ come back to me in a few years and tell me if it works, please."

 **(3** **)** quite a hot coffee, but considered insipidly mild by Klatchian standards. (You're ahead of me, aren't you, about the sort of Klatchian coffee beans Mariella will send to her sister in all innocence?)

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_

 _ **Wikipedia – heavier than expected concentration of red-haired people in Arab North Africa. Spike Milligan's account of the Tunisian village nicknamed "Glen Macdonald" by British soldiers, as apparently every "wog" there was red-haired – men, women, children, chickens, goats…. Red-haired Arabs are thought of as a genetic throwback to the Vandals/Visigoths coming out of Europe, as well as Normans who carried some N-Europe genes for blonde/red and imported slaves et c from Ireland, also Berber Arabs are red-haired, also archaeological evidence for lots of Phaoronic Egyptian people being auburn.**_

 _ **Babylon Translate gives**_ مكان ذوى الشعر الاحمر _**as "place of people with red hair" . Now all I need to do is get it translated into Roman letters…**_

 _Apparently it's_ _ **"mkan dwa alsh'er alahmr".**_ _Doesn't look like an Arabic name transposed into English, or even a Klatchian one transposed into Morporkian. Needs thought._

مكان ذوى الشعر الاحمر

 _ **mkan dwa alsh'er alahmr**_

' _ **Kandwa al-sher Alahmir**_

 _ **Candwa al-sher Alahmir**_


	6. En al Sams la Raisa

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter six: Where the sun does not shine**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, in a clandestine way that does not involve getting their passports stamped with an entry visa, in Klatch. So far they have dealt with a nocturnal approach from bandits and it has been established that Mariella is from Ur, which neatly explains any eccentricities. They are also keen to find out why a place called Candwa al-sher Alahmir appears to explain why nobody thinks a person from Ur with pale skin, red hair and freckles is considered unusual.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _ **March. In the deeper part of Klatch, around the desert oases of Tzit and Otherz.**_

 _ **EDIT - to take in issues addressed by reader novohank, thanks for the suggestions!**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House), Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

As you now know, we found a safe way of getting our journal entries back to you with no risk of their being intercepted by the Klatchians. However, they will have passed through the hands of the Palace first and will have reached you by the kind courtesy of Lord Vetinari. He does seem to be aware of our presence here and appears very well briefed as to our activities in Cenotia, so we are not telling him things he does not already know. We have attached a separate most urgent report for the personal attention of Lord Downey and the Dark Council, as a Situation has arisen here on which we require the Guild's counsel and guidance. I am sure Lord Downey will also consult on aspects of this with the Patrician. But more of this later. We will be here for some days and our messenger is likely to return with despatches for locally interested people. You may be able to arrange any personal messages or updates to travel with her.

We arrived cross-country to the trail connecting Tzit and Otherz. Here the last of the settlements become sparser and agriculture virtually ends, with sand and arid semi-desert taking over, grazed only by goats and sheep. We could see the sort of heat-haze about ten miles in either direction, which denotes a water-source. Our camels were quite insistent on travelling on (our water-skins need refilling) and we were willing to allow them to lead the way.

But on encountering the nearest thing to a road (Miss Band might speculate that somewhere under the packed sand of centuries there will be an old Latatian Empire-era military road paved with stone), we found a crowd of several hundred Klatchians, men, women and children, who were impassively and patiently waiting for something. Were they Ankh-Morporkians, I would have thought somebody had put the word out that very soon, street theatre is about to happen. They courteously made way for our camels, taking us to be young men of quality and therefore not to be offended. The swords we were wearing possibly swayed them to be respectful. We tethered and watered our camels, taking care to save nearly the last of the water for ourselves, and I went to ask what was going on here.

An individual was moving among them attempting to sell things from a tray about his neck. Street traders always seem to know. Mariella and I went to speak to him.

He had a strangely familiar look to him. Even under the loose baggy _djellibaba_ that hung on him like a large tent over a small circus. His fez was shabby and had seen better days. He appraised us with interest.

"Many salaams, offendis! Can I interest you two fine ladies – _gentlemen_ – in these fine eating delicacies, worthy of a sultan's table? Got hummus here, sultanas – _sultans_ – and olives, look!"

The hummus was gently bubbling like lava in a volcano crater. The olives had more in common with elderly prunes. His pitta bread, however, would have been loved by Dwarfs and served them well as a throwing weapon. I raised an eyebrow.

"Fresh, miss– _sir_! Fresh as of… well, fresh as of fairly recently!"

"We can tell." Mariella said.

The trader in dubious goods lowered his voice.

"Here for the stoning, are you?" he asked. "I can tell as how you are both really women dressed as men. Don't worry, miss… sirs! I won't tell. What with women not being allowed to stonings, see. Seeing as how It Is Written. We gets a lot of this."

He looked both ways, then furtively reached inside his robes. He brought out a couple of evidently fake beards, with metal wires to hook around the ears.

"If you takes my advice, miss. You both wear one of these! Or you stand out a mile. I'd have taken you to be beardless youths, till I got to see you both close up!"

I looked around. It was true. Now I looked closely, many of the people patiently waiting for street theatre were female. And all wearing false beards. You could see the wires. The men around them looked either oblivious, or else resigned to this. They were all also nursing piles of stones.

Mariella made a decision.

"How much?" she said. I saw her point. Here it would have been odd not to don a false beard.

"Five dinars, miss?"

"Four." I said. I know more about haggling.

"Four and a half for each of you." He said. "And I'll throw in a bag of mixed stones. For free, and that's chopping me own hand off."

Mariella looked at him.

"I thought Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off el-Dibblah lived in the time of Brutha?" she asked.

Dibblah had the grace to look shifty.

"Family name, miss." He said. "Kind of inherited it. From an illustrious forebear, though I'm not worthy. Unfit to tie his sandals, sort of thing."

He looked at her. "Either _you're_ from _Candwa al-sher Alahmir._ Or you're from Ur. But I'm bettin' that with an accent like that, you're from _somewhere else_ , as nobody from Klatch talks like that."

He gave her a long appraising look. He got one back from Mariella.

"I got relatives in Rimwards Howondaland, miss." he said, but in a low voice. Something suggested he was not likely to shop us to the authorities. Street traders rarely wish Authority to look their way or to have opportunity to investigate the provenance of the wares they trade in.

"Ja. Family members talk about a Klaussie van Dijbbler in Pratoria. _Sell-me-own-vrou-to-the-Zulus_ van Dijbbler."

"Yeah, that's him. And I'm bettin' you got family in Ankh-Morpork? Looks like you, but older. Red haired woman, Assassin. Woman you would _not_ want to cross. She travels a bit, or used to."

Mariella nodded at him and smiled slowly.

"My older sister? Ja."

"Thought so." said el-Dibblah. "If she ever travels this way, miss. I wants to be able to tell her I played fair by her little sister. I wouldn't want the alternative! So here's what I'll do."

He lowered his voice still further and again furtively looked around him. Fortunately the crowd was pointedly giving him a wide berth and nobody was close enough to listen.

"Little town near here. But remote. Hard to get to. Ask for the local _sultana._ You know. Lady of means. Inherited money and property. By rights should belong to her husband, but he died young. Sort of _sudden_ , see. Her name's Miriam bint-Alhazred. Graduate of the Assassins' Guild. Keeps herself to herself, but does odd jobs for Prince Khufurah. Probably that's why they accepted her husband's death was natural causes. Got an Understanding with the Hashishim, who are buggers you really wouldn't want to cross. She buys stuff off me now and again. Never actually seen her _eat_ any, which is the funny thing!"

I exchanged a look with Mariella. Miriam, of course, was a couple of years above us. I remember that she was favoured by Mr Mericet for her skill with Poisons. Mrs Mericet, that is, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, also put her on the special Advanced Course in Domestic Science.

"She might like to meet you both. Oh, don't worry about any food and drink she serves you. Law of sacred hospitality, see? But – if she offers you a sherbert after seventy-two hours are up, _don't accept it_."

He got back to business and assumed his working voice again.

"So, that's nine dinars for the miscellaneous items, _offendis,_ nice doing business with you both, young men of discernment, the name's Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off el-Dibblah, many _salaams,_ esteemed gentlemen, enjoy your stay in town, and the entertainment's about to begin!"

And.. oh, how do I describe this?

To explain. Offlerianism, as practiced in Klatch, has many competing sects. There is a sect of the renowned Hurtling Dervishes, with a temple in Tzit, who believe a state of ecstatic unity with the divine Offler may only be achieved by continually whirling in circles rotating clockwise, or deosil, or Turnwise with the motion of the disc on the backs of the four world-elephants. Whirling in any contrary direction is of course blasphemy.

Meanwhile in neighbouring Otherz there is also a sect of the renowned Hurtling Dervishes, with a temple in Otherz, who believe a state of ecstatic unity with the divine Offler may only be achieved by continually whirling in circles rotating counter-clockwise, or Widdershins, _against_ the motion of the disc on the backs of the four world-elephants. Whirling in any contrary direction is of course blasphemy.

As with any schism in religion, the tinier the difference in opinion, the more bitter the argument. (We Cenotians have lots of differences of opinions in the practice of our faith, but we do not fight among ourselves, as most of the time there is the larger problem of the rest of the world wanting to fight _us_. So our internal differences are projected _outwards_ , as the psychiatrists assert. Psychiatry is an invention of Cenotian doctors.)

So when a procession of Hurtling Dervishes coming out of Tzit, who are whirling clockwise, meets a procession of Hurtling Dervishes coming out of Otherz, who are whirling in an anti-clockwise direction, the resultant collision is most entertaining to watch and requires some sorting-out. It would have had Sam Vimes biting through his truncheon out of sheer exasperation.

And then there was a stoning.

Some poor soul accused of blasphemy. Fish meals are a delicacy here as we are so far from the coast. Fresh fish is brought in by carpet from the nearest coast, but it is expensive. This poor lost soul apparently said the halibut on his plate was good enough for Offler himself. He said this where an officious priest could hear.

Mariella and I threw a single stone each, but to just very carefully miss, then we discreetly reclaimed our camels and rode away. A second stone, thrown by me, missed sufficiently widely to hit the priest. Fortunately this was put down to over-enthusiasm on the part of one of the women, sorry, men, as no woman has such a beard and are in any case not permitted to be present at stonings. And the women present were the most enthusiastic, sorry to say.

We rode on into Tzit, pondering the problem of how far we could trust Miriam bint-Alhazred in her own country where she works for Prince Khufurah and has an accommodation with the notorious Hashishim.

Johanna, do you have an opinion on this that you could give us by return through our messenger? Miss Band was her housemistress for seven years, as I recall. Could she be prevailed upon for a character judgement?

And then the other thing happened which is of interest to the Guild and which we have reported on separately for the Dark Council as a matter of priority. Here we really do require guidance. I will let Mariella describe this. She has a greater interest in its resolution brought about by ties of nationality and a consequent sense of duty.

PS – most important. Drink the coffee in very small amounts. This is **important.**

* * *

Hi Johanna!

By the good offices of the messenger who will take this package with her, I can enclose this Journal to date and I have pleasure in enclosing a small sack of Klatchian coffee beans. The farmer who sold them to me describes them as a sovereign pick-me-up for those difficult mornings, which clears the head most admirably. And which aid reflection and thought at the end of a long day.

Well, we have a problem. I believe Rivka has described the religious procession and the somewhat distasteful ritual stoning we witnessed. But you only interfere with cultural traditions at great need or preferably not at all.

If you ever encounter a person called Cut-Me-Own-Hand-Off el-Dibblah, by the way, he was good to us and considerate, in his way. A useful contact who I believe gave us good information and a potentially useful contact. We are at the moment refraining from establishing contact with her.

Tzit is an unsavoury armpit of a place. We do not intend to stay here very long. The central bazaar is full of the usual hazards. People sell everything here. We have been offered the intimate services of younger sisters, younger brothers, elderly aunts, grandparents, goats, sheep, and for some reason, watermelons. I am sure all this is against their religion, but this does not seem to stop them.

A local custom, apart from selling questionable engravings and iconographs, is slavery. As we arrived in the town souk, a slaver and his guards were herding a procession of chained unfortunates in, both male and female. This was a sad and distressing sight, but as there is nothing we can do about it, we had to harden ourselves to pass and remain impassive, as local custom dictates.

I found one of the slaves in the chain-gang looked out of place. A blonde youth of about my own age, well built and seemingly in good physical condition. His head hung and he looked shamed by his state, as well he might.

Then I looked again and our eyes met and I realized with a shock of memory.

And he recognized me. He also spoke Vondalaans.

"Mariella? Mariella Smith-Rhodes? Is it you? Thank Gods! You must help me! Did the Guild send you?"

Rivka, after a moment of shock, also recognized him. She quickly asked me what the Vondalaans was for "shut the FUCK up, you bloody idiot!" I coached her quickly as he babbled. Then she stepped forward, an imperious Klatchian, drew her sword and started beating him with the flat, speaking coldly to him in Klatchian along the lines of "how dare you, a slave, seek to speak directly to your betters!" But I heard her slip the phrase " _bly stil, pielkop_!" in the middle. This appeared to go un-noticed. I applaud that she belaboured Horst Lensen mightily with the flat of her sword. For seven long years, right from the first day of our meeting, I wanted to do this myself. Many times. I hoped Horst remembered his training and could read finger-code. I was signaling "I know who you are. We will seek to discover more. For now, you are blowing our cover. Do you wish us chained up with you? Idiot."

So Horst did not die on the night of his Final Run, as the rest of us thought? It seems he has been given the Extra Year Option, of being dumped in a remote part of Howondaland and ordered to find his way to the Guild within a year and a day. Was he sent to Sam Vimes' garden and offended Vimes, as I believe Lucinda Rust did? In the event, he appears to have got no further than slavers who took him captive.

We now have a dilemma, Johanna. You know as I know that Horst Lensen is a fool, an idiot, an arrogant oaf and indeed a _pielkop_. And a _doosis_. And a _draadtrekker._ And a _bliksem_. But he is still a compatriot, a Vondalaander. He was also a student alongside Rivka and me.

But I know little about the Extra Year Option, save that it is an extra enforced year, a long extension of the Final Run. We have graduated. If we assist Horst in escaping, is this improper assistance, helping him cheat on his exam? Yet he is still somebody to whom I feel we owe an obligation. I can do without this and so can Rivka. As we have asked the Dark Council in a direct plea, what are the protocols here and what would be regarded as legitimate? Idiot though he is, I feel we cannot just walk on and leave him to his fate.

Anyway, the slavemaster stepped forward with his whip, salaamed to Rivka, begged pardon for one of his slaves being impertinent and disturbing the peace of a young gentleman, and you may be assured he will be whipped. He is a new capture and needs to be shown his place. Indeed, weapons and equipment were found on his person that would interest the Seraph's personal guards, the special guards. He is a cringing wretch but he was carrying things typical of the pig-f…. pig- _loving_ Assassins of Ankh-Morpork. If he turns out to be one such, young lord, then he is _truly_ dangerous. The Seraph would thank me with gold for capturing such a dangerous one. Snivelling wretch though he is now.

Rivka nodded imperiously.

"I take it such weapons are in safe hands?" she asked.

"The slave's former possessions, now mine by right of ownership, or the Seraph's if he so requests them, are under safe lock and guard in my baggage, young lord." he assured her. Or, as he thought, assured _him_.

Rivka got it out of him that he and the slaves would be resting here for several days before they were to march on for Al-Khali and the coast. He might try to sell a few here, but the big city meant big dinar. The goods must therefore be rested, not for the welfare of the dogs, who were all infidels, but so that they would be in good saleable condition for the auction block.

"Your silent friend is from Ur, young lord?"

"With family in _Candwa al-sher Alahmir,_ it seems."

The slave-driver nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. The hair. Obvious."

Rivka thanked him, and we walked on.

"We've got a few days." she said. "The idiot can stew while we find out more. This place where Miriam lives. _En- al-Sams-la-Raisa_. It's a day or so away from here. Shall we scope it out, do a recce? If Miriam can be trusted, we can ask her advice."

We set out for En- al-Sams-la-Raisa, leaving the _poepol_ Horst Lenson to his fate – for the moment.

En- al-Sams-la-Raisa is indeed a place. It is an even more Gods-abandoned town than Tzit, a day's ride away through almost true desert. Apparently it has a twinning arrangement with the settlement of Slice, a place in Lancre that has much in common.

The only buildings that are in any sort of well-kept condition are the Temple with the inevitable minaret, and a large house with a high spiked wall which we were told is the home of the reclusive Sultana, My Lady bin-Alhazred. On this occasion, we decided not to visit. The miserable settlement is built around a small and suspicious-looking oasis with a few miserable looking date palms growing in a half-hearted way at its fringes. Not a place to linger in.

To our surprise, we saw, outside a building that was in better shape than most, a large white horse, tethered to a post outside, that was placidly grazing a nosebag. And it had wings folded back against its body.

Only two places in the Disc have such horses.

We swiftly tethered our camels, paid a small boy a couple of _piasters_ to keep an eye on them, then went over to the building where the Pegasus was grazing. The door was guarded.

"Here you, what are you up to?"

We read the brass plate by the door. It read CONSULATE OF THE CITY-STATE OF ANKH-MORPORK.

"I _said,_ what're you doing here?"

The guard was in Ankh-Morpork City Watch uniform. I recall you saying Commander Sam Vimes sends men on detached service as Embassy guards, sometimes ones he doesn't want in the City. Some overseas postings are effectively punishment for having really fouled up, or for proven incompetents on street patrols. Exiles for idiots.

"Sling it, we don't want bloody _natives_ in the Consulate…"

Then he was looking at two membership cards for the Guild of Assassins. New ones, not yet creased or scratched.

We _sal'aamed_ in the native style. We didn't know who might be watching.

"You will let us in." Rivka hissed. "Without making a fuss about it. And quickly!"

The door guard stood back.

"I dunno. Got to consult on this one…"

Then a new voice.

"Oh, for goodness sake, Constable Nightsoiler. The gentlemen are obviously here to sell the consul some more _artistic prints_ for his personal collection. You _know_ he's a keen art connoisseur!"

It was a woman's voice. Pitched loudly enough for any observer outside to hear. I put on a Klatchian accent.

"s'right, offendi. We got dirty postcards for His Lordship!"

And we pushed in, past the officious guard, evidently in a bad temper for his posting to the middle of nowhere and determined to spread it around.

Our eyes readjusted to the dimmer light and our bodies appreciated the coolness. Then I recognized the speaker.

"Let me guess. Mariella Smith-Rhodes, isn't it? And Rivka. I was asked to look out for you two after you disappeared out of Cenotia. People in Ankh-Morpork suspected you'd gone into Klatch."

It was Irena Politek, of course. Pegasus Service pilot. And a friend of our family.

"Come on. I'll fix you both a sherbert. Not the sort you suck through a liquorice tube, the _drinkable_ , and take off those ridiculous false beards, by the way. It doesn'r match your red hair, for one thing. What brings you here?"

"We saw the Pegasus. You could help us out." Rivka said.

"Yes, they _are_ distinctive, aren't they? Don't worry about your camels. Buggy's watching them. Anyone tries to go through the saddlebags looking for incriminating evidence, and I just bet there's plenty, is going to get a Feegle full in the face. He's out there minding the horse, and he knows to look out for you two. You're lucky to find me. We only do backwater places like this on the Klatch milk-run once every couple of months. You know, to deliver and collect. No point visiting more frequently."

She indicated a pile of newspapers.

"Delivery. Latest copies of the _**Times**_ for the consul. I should warn you, by the way, he's a bit sand-happy. And a bit… well, let's say it was one of Vetinari's little jokes to have the consulate for Rimwards Klatch moved to this place with the interesting name. And to appoint Sir Michaelmas as Consul."

I could see Rivka working it out.

 _En- al-Sams-la-Raisa._ The place… location… settlement… orifice. Where the sun quite unaccountably sheds no light…. _The Place Where The Sun Does Not Shine?_ "

Irena nodded.

"Twinned with Slice, Lancre." she said. "And twin towns traditionally share something in common. Sir Michaelmas Selachii is Consul here. Vetinari was running out of places to post him after he fouled up in Matabeleland, screwed up in Brindisi, and completely failed to spot trouble brewing in Überwald. **(1)** It was Vetinari's little joke to post him Where The Sun Does Not Shine."

"Here?"

"Well, Lancre's _important._ You want a duff diplomat you can't sack shuffled out of harm's way. Where he can do least damage. And the number of Ankh-Morporkian citizens passing through this place and needing help can be counted on a blind carpenter's fingers. Also, no notables or dignitaries here for him to offend. That's important too."

"So where is he now?"

"Probably sucking _orakh_ in the tavern. Or else at Fat Ima's, passing the time of day. Apparently Ima's very hospitable and does a memorable belly dance. _Lots_ of belly. Why don't you read the papers while you're waiting? You two caused a bit of a stir."

We did. And…

 _ **Extracts from the Ankh-Morpork Times:**_

 _From our correspondent in Howondaland and Klatch, Suki van der Graaf: reporting from the war-torn Golem Heights, Cenotia._

 _I was privileged to spend three days living amongst the passionate and sincere idealists, Cenotians returning to their Homeland from all parts of the Disc, united by ties of religion and ethnicity whose dream is to take abandoned and neglected land and to turn it into a garden, despite all adversity, remaining true to their dream…_

"She's laying it on with a bloody big trowel, isn't she?" Rivka asked.

"Ag, that's Suki." I said.

 _I arrived to a meeting of impassioned opinions and high emotional drama. It appears the commune was being stirred to new heights through the inspired and visionary leadership exerted by recent Assassins' Guild School graduate, miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes (18), who, despite not being Cenotian and in fact from my home country of Rimwards Howondaland, was powerfully evoking the ties of kinship between Cenotia and the Vondalaans volk . With my own ears I heard her making a powerful and heartfelt speech about how the Vondalaans people, emigrants from Sto Kerrig to a new continent, forged a new land in Howondaland, a dream of agrarian people living a life of self-sufficiency, a hardy folk, a farmer folk, who built a land out of nothing and periodically had to lay down the peaceful tools of the Boer farmer and raise the weapons of war against foes who would drive them out and inflict what our language calls_ _ **pyn en smart**_ _, hurt and suffering. Warming to her theme, Miss Smith-Rhodes harangued her audience by pointing out that the Cenotian kibbutzim are just like us, and just as we had to, if you want the land, you must be prepared to FIGHT for the bloody land!As our anthem sauys - " **dis, my grond, hier in my vuis!"** She raised and clenched a fist to make this point - for Morporkian readers, this is a battle-cry of our people. "If you want this land so much, come prise it from my cold dead fingers." I refer my Morporkian readers to the fact the word "vuis" in our language means "fist". In your language, you are familiar with the word "vice". In the sense of "that which holds and grips tightly", that is. It is pronounced identically. _

_This battle cry is also a song. miss Smith-Rhodes paused for a moment, as if suddenly inspired, and then a great thing happened, an almost magical thing. I felt privileged, as a Vondalaander myself and knowing in my heart the truth of her words, to be there as a witness._

 _She sang, in a powerful and impassioned voice, the_ _ **Vondalaandshartslied,**_ _the Hymn of the Boor People, a semi-official national anthem of my homeland. (for my Ankh-Morporkian readers, I must explain that my people will sing_ _ **De Stem van Hovondalaand**_ _, the official anthem, willingly enough and with sincerity. But they will really sing the Vondalander Heart Hymn with true passion. It is_ _ **that**_ _sort of song)._

In vuur en bloed vind ek my nou;  
Soos elke boer en kind en vrou;  
'n Oormag kwyl nou oor ons land -  
Staan gewapen tot die tand.

 _At first there was incomprehension, but then an audience that knew little or no Vondalaans got the tune. They began to hum along. Then musical instruments picked up the theme. Then some began improvising Morporkian and Cenotian words. And then all were united as the message of the Hymn bypassed the conscious hearing of the brain and penetrated the heart. A Dwarf present, Ms Gudrun Friggsniece (185) said it was true hole music. Miss Smith-Rhodes performed the anthem twice and at the end there was not a dry eye in the house. Miss Smith-Rhodes confessed afterwards that she was on the point of adding the **De La Rey** song, but had decided to refrain on the grounds that there are limits. "I know where to stop. I think." she said._ **(2)**

"I was blooming well fed up." I said. I was bright red with embarrassment, wondering if that had really been me up there. "I talked to them and I tried to demonstrate to them and I tried to lead them and they still weren't getting it. Then in the end I sang at them. I had run out of ideas."

"You have to admit, it worked." Rivka said. "And Suki's made you a reputation, I think. Apparently lots of people in Ankh-Morpork want to talk to you."

 _And the next night, after a day spent watching, observing and talking to people and observing their forming a Hagunah, what we in Rimwards Howondaland call a volkskommando, which was trained by A.G. School graduate miss Rivka ben-Devora (19) and by other men skilled in warfare. I witnessed them facing the Klatchians, who without provocation launched a dastardly and unprovoked night attack…_

 _I was in the thick of the thrilling action and took many iconographs. I witnessed the utter routing of the Klatchians, and the destruction of the military force they launched into Cenotia, defeated by the stalwart kibbutzim under the leadership of Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah, herself a Cenotian national with everything to fight for in her own land…_

"Oi vey. Praise, but no pay. Not even a medal!"

 _ **On other Pages:**_

 _Lord Vetinari pronounces satisfaction at the resolution of the Golem Heights emergency (p5)_

 _Klatchian Ambassador says "The action was ill-advised and carried out by rogue elements in the Klatchian military". (p5)_

 _Cenotian ambassador says this is typical of the aggression and destructive mentality towards Cenotia which is ingrained in the Klatchian mind. Gevalt, we've been telling you this for years, but are you listening? (p5)_

 _Lord Downey expresses pride in graduates living up to the finest traditions of the Guild (p4)_

 _Leaders of the defence of the Golem Heights graduated as First and Second in the honour rolls of their year in the Assassins' Guild School: Dagger of Honour justly awarded to Miss ben-Devorah, with Miss Smith-Rhodes a close second (p7) Guild "giving consideration" to a Gold Dagger for the first placed student and a lesser Silver Dagger to the second-placed.  
_

 _The Smith-Rhodes family: a most remarkable and outstanding clan. Sacharissa Cripslock profiles what is known of the Family Who Made Modern Howondaland (pp 8-9) and their latter association with the Guild of Assassins._

 _Approached for a quote, the famous Assassin Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes (35?) informed us "My younger sister once said that the only way to get out of my shadow was to make a name for herself in her own right. It looks as if she's started. I'm pleased."_

 _His Excellency the Ambassador of Rimwards Howondaland, Pieter van der Graaf, (relation) writes exclusively for us on the power of song and the potency of the Vondalaander Heart anthem to stir emotions. (p24)_

I looked up at Irena. She smiled and patted my shoulder.

"Apparently it all dies down after a few weeks." she said. "But right now, you're a heroine."

I put the papers down.

"Irena? When you fly back. Could you take some letters for us?"

"Be happy to. But you do know I'm flying officially and anything I carry goes through the Palace? Johanna will get it, Vetinari will insist on that. But he'll know every word you've written."

"Good, because there'll be one for Lord Downey, too." Rivka said. "We've got a problem. Two in fact. The Guild needs to know."

"You're Bekki's official Godsparent." I pointed out. "Her fairy godmother, sort of. Could you get away with saying it's a private message for family?"

Irena looked doubtful. We set about writing our messages and getting these journals up to date.

Then Sir Michael Selachii belatedly returned, possibly from Fat Ima's. A typical Selachii with a face made florid by Klatchian sun and Klatchian orakh. He took one look at two people dressed in Klatchian costume sitting in his consulate, and then demonstrated why he is such a bad diplomat.

"Constable! What are these bloody towel-headed wogs doing in my Consulate?"

Ah well. No wonder he was posted to the Place Where The Sun Does Not Shine.

I will close now as Irena is about to fly back. She will be here again tomorrow, in this unprecedented situation, with any replies. We really need to know about Miriam, and also the protocols dictating such aid as we can give to the fool Horst Lensen.

Your loving sister who is apparently now making her own name in the world, and more importantly, still aunt to Bekki and baby Famke.

Mariella.

* * *

 **(1)** See my story _**Clowning Is A Serious Business**_.

 **(2)** _**De La Rey**_ , an anthem also by Afrikaner singer Bok van Blerk, caused real strife in South Africa. Celebrating a great Boer War hero and with a chorus summing up as "Who will lead the Boer race now?", questions were asked in parliament about what was perceived as the subversive nature of the song (like apartheid in reverse, ie with a black government and its equivalent of the old BOSS getting paranoid about signs of subversive unrest among the whites, as some people said. It's interesting an even more inflammatory anthem by a black performer, advocating we break out the machine-guns and follow the excellent example set by Mr Mugabe re. the compulsory redistirbution of white-owned property, was allowed to pass without censure.). Many radio stations refuse to play this song and others by van Blerk, as it was held to be a coded incitement to White South Africans to rise up against the new order and restore the Good Old Ways. It is true his songs have become anthems and rallying points for nationalist white groups in SA, but van Blerk himself has dissociated himself from racism and white nationalism and deplores their use by racists. The heavy-handed treatment of his music by the black majority government, and the banned status of the songs on SA radio, has led to them being focal points for white dissent against the ANC government. And it doesn't all come from old-time racist whites. _**De La Rey**_ is also damn catchy and another earworm. The chorus and cadences kind of stick. Even though the video lays it on with a trowel and is packed with up-to-eleven clichés of the plucky Boer being downtrodden by the evil dastardly British - it's worth a listen. Indeed, only _**one**_ ethnic/racial/linguistic group associated with South Africa gets an overt panning in van Blerk's songs and is treated as if they were loathsome cockroaches unfit to walk in God's Own Country. The white British.

 **Notes Dump:**

 _ **In which ideas and concepts not immediately relevant to this story go into suspended animation, lest the Author forgets about them.**_

Refer to the "Afrikanerhart" anthem for specific references. English lyrics are available: this is pretty loose and could be much improved on but gives the gist.

In fire and blood do I find myself now  
As every Boer and child and wife  
A great power drooling over our country  
Stand armed to the teeth  
Their shadow falls like a dark cloud  
Over the future of our nation  
And if we don't fight we will perish  
At Magersfontein, at Magersfontein, at Magersfontein  
Do we draw the line

Come Boer, be heroes now  
The day of reckoning is here  
The enemy is running over our fields  
Stand your ground against cannon fire  
The Khakis (English soldiers) who want to defeat our people  
Promise pain and sorrow  
But if you shoot, shoot me through  
But if you shoot, shoot me through  
But if you shoot, shoot me through my Afrikaner heart

If you ask me, I will tell you  
How the roots of my heart lie  
If you ask me, I will show you  
It's my soil here in my fist!  
Even if hell breaks loose behind us  
And even if heaven falls down  
Keep the line and stand your man  
It is here where we can stop them  
Stand firm Zuid Africa  
Stand firm Zuid Africa

Come, farmer-warriors, be now heroes;  
The day of reckoning is here  
The enemy is running over our fields  
Stand your ground against cannon fire  
The Khakis (English soldiers) who want to defeat our people  
Promise pain and sorrow  
But if you shoot, shoot me through  
But if you shoot, shoot me through  
But if you shoot, shoot me through my Afrikaner heart


	7. Decisions

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter seven: The Sultana. Or perhaps a Begum.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, in Rimwards Klatch and have been faced with a conundrum. They may have to manumit a slave. With or without the consent or indeed the knowledge of his current owner. They have found a way of sending safe communications home. But there is also the problem of the Sultana to resolve. And she will turn out to be neither sweet nor wrinkly.**_

 _ **Odd to write a sotry featuring a Smith-Rhodes where Johanna is at best a cameo character. But hey. she's a young working mother these days and can't leave the kids at home for too long while she's off concluding a contract. The torch has to pass to others...**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _ **March. we move away, for the moment, from the deeper part of Rimwards Klatch, around the desert oases of Tzit and Otherz and the remote hidden settlement of En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, where people have settled for very little. But this part of the story happens a couple of thosand miles away.  
**_

 _ **Intermission: Minutes of a Meeting of the Dark Council of the Guild of Assassins.**_

 _Minutes taken by Miss Hortensia Wilmslowe, Personal Assistant to the Dark Council._

 _Classification: extremely restricted._

 _ **Members Present:**_

 _Lord Donald Downey, Guild Master. (DD) - Chair_

 _Lady Roberta de Meserole, Minister of State without Portfolio, the Palace. (RdM)_

 _Lady T'Malia: Politics, Political Expediency, SehrRealPolitik (LT'M)_

 _Miss Joan Sanderson-Reeves: Deportment, Elocution, Ordinary and Advanced Domestic Science, Head of Day School. (JS-R 1)_

 _Mr Henri Le Balouard; Dance, Deportment, Quirmian Language, Energetic and Flamboyant Espionage. (HlB)_

 _Doctor Xavier Perdore; Brindisian Language and Customs, Intelligence Gathering And Evaluation (XP)_

 _Mr Grune Nivor; Edificeering, Physical Education, Traps and Pitfalls (GN)_

 _Mr H. Mericet, Alchemy, Inimical Alchemy, Poison Strategy, Use of Applied Sarcasm, Hyperbole, Litotes and Metaphor (HM)_

 _Mr Brown, QCIC (Guild Internal and External Investigation) (B)_

 _Mr H.V. Winvoe, Guild Bursar, Treasurer and Principal Financial Officer (HW)_

 _The Compte de Yoyo; Geography, Field Studies, Practical Applied Geography (CdY)_

 _The Right Reverend Clement N'Effible, Guild Chaplain, Religious Studies, Theology, Localised and Bespoke Immanetisation of the Eschaton (CN'E)_

 _The Honourable Miss Alice Band; History, Archaeology (conventional and Stealth), Edificeering, Traps and Pitfalls (AB)_

 _ **Also Present:**_

 _Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons; Biology, Natural Studies, Zoology, Unconventional and Assymetric Combat, Exothermic Alchemy, Howondalandian Languages (Saturdays only and evenings by prior arrangement). (J-SR 2)_

 _Matron Igorina; School Matron, Personal and Social Development, First Aid, Intermediate Medical Care, Advanced Heroic Surgery (MI)_

The newest member to the Dark Council, Miss Alice Band, was welcomed by all present and Lord Downey expressed his personal confidence that her observations and reflections will be as pithy, relevant and considered as we could expect of her. She will be a valued addition to the team who steer Guild policy and its application to current events around the Disc.

This was seconded by JSR1, who expressed the opinion that another sensible woman at the table was damn welcome, and while she'd heard a lot of damnfool nonsense spoken about gender imbalance, in her experience a lot of women were every bit as capable of speaking utter rot as a lot of men, so if we're going to actively select for women, better we get the bright and able ones like Alice on board.

The first item on the agenda was the recent critical situation in Cenotia, and its apparent resolution in what is now being called a "border clash" in the disputed Golem Heights.

AB noted that whenever JSR2 is in receipt of a despatch from her younger sister, everybody in the Staffroom listens when JSR2 obligingly reads it out loud. Her on-the-spot translations of the letters into Morporkian are appreciated, by the way.

"Ah, yes." DD said. "The younger sister." DD then spoke approvingly of the way two recent graduates of the school are already establishing a reputation, so very soon after graduating. GN remarked as to whether there was any doubt at all concerning either, who appeared to be stellar starred-A candidates who put him in mind of Pteppic and Chidder, two of the finest students he had had the pleasure of educating.

HM observed that both graduates had a depressing tendency to stretch, if not actively breach, School Rules. RdM made the observation that the very best Assassins tend to be the ones who have the gumption to test the boundaries and seek to break the rules. This teaches them when to take risks intelligently, and to find the loopholes allowing them to apply innovative thought to intractable situations. As many people sitting around this table should remember, Donald.

Oh yes, said HlB. That little business of getting intermediaries to place large cash bets on her running prowess. Nearly five thousand dollars, wasn't it, when she was found out **?(1)** Quite a few School Rules not only broken, but shattered, there. All at once. And the other young lady. Looked like butter wouldn't melt, but an absolute demon in a fight. Madame Emmanuelle had a lot of work to do there.

MI then observed, as did I. Miss ben-Devorah was a reliable cause of small medical tasks to occupy my time. Little incidents occurring to others, which in the main combined remarkably little lasting injury with a maximum of pain and discomfort. She was quite good at that. Now the new academic year has commenced I find myself missing her.

LT'M echoed the general praise of the two graduates under discussion, remarking it was an absolute shame, from the point of view of miss Smith-Rhodes, that an even better student was in her year. Otherwise she, Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes, would have walked away at the top of her year with the coveted Dagger of Honour. She has to be content with second place. Out of, she believed, over a hundred students who were advanced to the Final Run. Johanna, my dear, you and your family must be so proud?

JSR2 acknowledged this, but added the caveat that the first year after graduation is the most dangerous one, where a new graduate has the confidence but not the experience, and is most likely to become dangerously over-confident. Getting the Dagger of Honour is no defence against this. She expressed what she called a nagging concern, that her sister and her friend might push it just a little too far without a more experienced Senior Assassin to guide and mentor them. Indeed, she had brought current concerns to the attention of the Dark Council, even though she suspected Lord Downey had heard of the complicated situation already through his own channels. It was necessary to make sure.

DD said that happily, and mindful of a continuing duty of care, we may be able to provide local guidance to the travellers. But more later.

The Golem Heights incident was discussed in depth. DD stated that he was most pleased with the extensive Press coverage which placed the Guild in a very good light, as a public-spirited organisation prepared to put itself out for the common good and whose members were prepared to undertake pro-bono work in an demonstrably good cause. He was in the rare position of having received unqualified approval from the Palace, in fact. It appeared he had Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah to thank for the positive public relations which cannot easily be quantified in real money.

JSR1 said JSR2 should now move in quickly to get some sort of cash payment for her sister, while he's in a good mood. HW intervened quickly to say any ex-gratia cash payment in recognition of exceptional achievement should properly be concluded here by full Dark Council, and he was happy to advise on the upper limit that Guild finances, somewhat strained in these trying times, could afford.

Miss Band broke in to say that if we're discussing finances, she'd received some quite interesting information direct from Miss ben-Devorah concerning hitherto unexcavated archaeological sites in the Golems, with iconographs, and she felt that in the forthcoming School holiday, she and say fifteen Guild students could be accommodated very inexpensively at the nearby kibbutz. The possibility of further armed conflict, however remote it now seems, would be an additional educational bonus for the students. All the School had to stump up was travelling costs. And in the circumstances, she thought the Klatchians would pay attention to another named Assassin plus students being very openly in the vicinity, and be further deterred from doing anything stupid.

This was taken under consideration as a very valid point. LT'M, RdM and JSR1 all offered vocal support to AB's proposal, as did CdY.

JSR2 said, in the circumstances, $AM5,000 each to both young ladies sounded about right as an ex-gratia payment for exceptional achievement. And for the good PR. But then, she had an interest to declare and as she is not a Council member, she was aware she could not formally propose this.

HW very quickly intervened and said he thought the Guild could go as high as $AM2,500 per person. This was unanimously approved and will be held in abeyance until our members return.

DD summarised the incalculable benefits of the Golem Resolution for the guild as being

Very good PR in the newspapers;

The goodwill of the Palace who were reminded that the Guild helped the Patrician resolve his policy objectives in the area;

Enhanced friendship and goodwill with the Cenotian Government, who were now predisposed to allow the Guild to open a bureau in Tel Ari, thus increasing our reach into the Klatchian continent;

A reminder to our Brothers-in-Assassination of the Hashishim that we are _not_ to be underestimated and have legitimate interests in the Continent, where they have hitherto enjoyed a trade monopoly. Not, obviously, that we have _anything other_ than the _most cordial_ relationship with them, _oh dear me no_. He asked for key parts of this point to be italicised in the minutes.

RdM, whose status is that of an intermediary with the Palace, added that the actions of the two operatives in the Golems served to fulfil the main drift of Ankh-Morporkian foreign policy in the region. She summed the key points thus:

To prevent open warfare which is detrimental to everyone's economic interests and can destabilise the economies of the entire Circle Sea region, which is always unstable and somewhat volatile.

To oblige the Klatchian Empire to split and disperse its not insignificant armed forces over the maximum number of widely separated potential and actual flashpoints.

To weaken and publicly embarrass the Klatchian administration. The work of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ and especially its freelance reporter Miss Suki van der Graaf is noted here, especially that newspapers in five countries eventually carried her copy in seven different languages.

To indirectly strengthen our closest ally on the continent, to wit, Rimwards Howondaland.

In the opinion of RdM, all these objectives were admirably fulfilled, and Havelock wishes his thanks to discreetly be communicated to Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah. He also suggests that if they were to find the informal job offers they have received from their own nations to be morally or ethically dubious, they might wish to consider becoming naturalised citizens of Ankh-Morpork and take up Palace employment.

XP drew attention to the strange and inexplicable fires that raged through a semi-permanent Klatchian Army base depot on their side of the Golems, not far from the scene of the engagement. His sources point to the odd fact that whilst no more than a hundred Klatchian regular soldiers were based there, storerooms at the barracks, until quite recently, contained weapons, provisions and stores potentially capable of arming up to three thousand men.

GN queried the phrase "until quite recently".

XP clarified the point that the fires appeared to have, sadly for the Klatchians, totally destroyed the armouries, the food ration stores, the warehouse containing tents, blankets and other paraphernalia an army on the march requires to sustain itself, together with a goodly part of the wagon park which would have carried such material to men on an advance deep into enemy country. The losses will take the Klatchians some time to make good.

CN'E commented that for a series of random accidental fires, they appear to have happened in some key places with a complete minimum of human or animal fatality. One might almost assume a God had intervened.

XP and HlB confirmed that their information is that the Klatchians, after investigation of the fires, are forced to conclude this was down to a series of accidents brought about by sloppy practice. After all, cigarette butts and spent matches were found in places such as the oil store, where men had no business to be smoking. Especially when the oil involved is the notoriously flammable mixture used to fuel Klatchian Fire Engines, expensive ordnance of which possibly a dozen hard-to-replace examples were utterly destroyed in the fires. It is interesting the majority of people would not have recognised such devoces, but all of them were destroyed in the blaze as if indeed, Chaplain, it were an Act of the sort of God who the priests tell us abominates such things.

CN'E mildly said the Gods move in strange ways and often employ human intermediaries, such as, perhaps, people trained over seven years to recognise such devices, and who have the necessary trade competencies to faithfully serve the Gods in these matters.

AB pointed to the little problem inherent here, that surely cigarette butts and spent matches would _also_ have been utterly consumed in such an intense conflagration. Johanna, correct me if I'm wrong, but you sent your sister a large delivery of, er, _fireworks_ , for her to celebrate the midwinter and New Year celebrations? And both she and Miss ben-Devorah are graduates from your classes in Exothermic Alchemy?

JSR2 remarked that evidently they did indeed go up with a lot of pretty sparks and colours to delight young and old alike. Unless, perhaps, they were Klatchians who hoped by bandit attacks to provoke a raid across their border with Cenotia, so they could then say Cenotia was guilty of aggression and were entitled to reply in kind, with a measured and restrained force of about three thousand men. Weapons for whom were conveniently already present a mile or two from the border.

And as she teaches in Assymetric Warfare, two people can indeed defeat three thousand, if they are in the correct place at the correct time with the appropriate weapons, and prime them correctly.

Some fireworks, said B.

Havelock is pleased, said RdM. For the reasons summarised above.

XP then informed the meeting that unofficially, the Klatchian authorities now belatedly suspect two Assassins from this Guild, who have helpfully been named along with convenient identifying iconographs in many newspapers, were responsible for an act of grand arson. And that the two young ladies so implicated are currently travelling through Klatch, albeit clandestinely. At the very least they should be so advised, and instructed to leave Klatchian jurisdiction as soon as possible.

RdM said this can be done via the Pegasus Service, who have established contact with the two operatives, now known to be in the remote settlement of En al Sams la Raisa. Messages can discreetly be conveyed to the Consulate there.

Michaelmas Selachii? remarked CdY. Who offered the opinion that even for a Selachii, Michaelmas was a completely useless clueless tit. Pardon his Quirmian.

Je t'excuse, mon ami, said HlB. Je suis completement d'accord.

Hence his posting, RdM said. Not even Havelock can sack a Selachii from government service. The old noble families have certain privileges. He has to minimise the potential for embarrassment as best he can. Hence his posting to an unsavoury oasis in the middle of a desert to drink himself to death on orakh, and entertain himself with a growing collection of artistic iconongraphs. And Fat Ima.

Which leads us to the other pressing issues raised by our young ladies, said DD, getting the discussion back on track. You have all been briefed. I agree this presents certain problems. Your thoughts, ladies and gentlemen?

HM said that the situation with young Mr Lensen, who he had always considered to be at most a borderline candidate and in many ways an unsatisfactory pupil, did not really surprise him one little bit. He had realised there was a potential for trouble right on the very first day he arrived, when he had been uncautious enough to call Miss Ruth N'Kweze, to her face, a "kaffir housegirl." **(2)**

Cn'E remarked that Mr Lensen had been very fortunate to only have been _warned_ about his conduct. In his opinion, his esteemed half-sister could get quite touchy about these things, as indeed he could, but quite properly realised restraint and diplomacy was called for.

I have learnt respect for female graduates of this Guild. HM remarked. Miss Ruth N'Kweze is also a valued member of teaching staff here. I spoke sternly to Mr Lensen, reminded him the social protocols of White Howondaland do not apply here and that our relationship with me, as his Housemaster, had not got off to the best of starts. I assigned him the exercise of researching and writing a detailed essay on the history of the Zulu Paramount Royal House, as clearly his education at Home had been woefully deficient in such matters, and to clearly ponder upon Miss n'Kweze's membership of that House and what it entails in terms of, for instance, respect and common courtesy. But as we agreed, not a good start. I also believe Doctor Smith-Rhodes, in her capacity as pastoral guide to White Howondalandian students, also had occasion to speak to him sternly concerning his attitudes and conduct.

JSR2 confirmed Ja, many times. She also suspected Mr Lensen had been recruited by the Bureau of State Security to act as spy on his compatriots, including herself, with the result of many BOSS files being opened at the Embassy and her own file, as well as that of Miss van Kruger, getting somewhat thicker and fatter. She believed Lensen's prize for graduating would be to spend his National Service as an officer of BOSS, an active willing volunteer for that service, something many other students for whom she has pastoral responsibility are actively striving to avoid.

DD explained that selection of students to do what is known as the Ultimate Vimes Run on the night of their Final Exam is not haphazard or random. Students who are thought to benefit from this are sent on the discretionary module, developed in co-operation with Sir Samuel, knowing the vast majority will fail. The exam then becomes a test of their resolution and determination to succeed and serves to weed out, without fatalities, the ones who do not have what it takes at the final hurdle. Unfortunately, Mr Lensen somehow fatally offended Sir Samuel, which is most unwise. He was then vectored on the Extra Year option, where he was told, on disembarking from his ship in Ymitury, that his task was to make it to the Guild office in Pratoria, in his native country, within a year and a day. It would appear he only made it as far as Klatch, where we are informed he was captured for sale as a slave in Al-Khali.

LT'M observed that for all practical purposes, Mr Lensen was obliged to do what Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah are doing for pleasure and leisure travel. To cross the whole continent. She, LT'M, found it somewhat inevitable that their paths would cross at some point.

This is not good, said RdM. She agreed the boy sounds an utter idiot, but already Mr van der Graaf, the concerned Ambassador, is preparing an official request for information from the Klatchian Ambassador concerning the fate of a citizen of Rimwards Howondaland. Somebody must have told him. I can't think who.

JSR2 was seen to look impassive.

DD agreed that this did not look good at all. For one thing, a lot of Assassin equipment has fallen into the hands of the Klatchians, and a priority must be its retrieval.

JSR1 reminded DD that a Guild student had also been condemned to a life of slavery. Even the biggest waste of oxygen did not, in her opinion, deserve this.

AB opined that she had no doubt at all that Rivka and Mariella could extract him and get him out. She knew both to be incredibly able people even as students, and remarked that she'd very nearly felt guilty about sending both on the Vimes Run as a necessary corrective. A necessary reminder that even the very best will run into difficulties where they cannot hope to win. But, she said. Can they do it without being pursued by the Klatchians, and would taking a complete idiot into tow act as a liability to them, making it more likely they'd get caught in a country where they are already wanted for arson?

B reminded the meeting about the informal exam rules, where a student on the Extra Year option, if they encounter graduate Assassins, may expect a degree of support, if only out of normal human decency and the general expectation that Guild members look out for each other. But, and this is important, the student on the Extra Year cannot and must not expect any Assassin he or she meets to resolve their difficulties for them. This can be seen by the Exam Committee of which he, Mr Brown, was a member, as cheating and an excessive degree of assistance. The situation practically obliged Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah to offer minimal assistance – Mr Lensen must put in a significant amount of the work _for himself_ in breaking out of his imprisonment. If they do it for him, it _does not count_ and will contribute towards his failing his exam. Indeed, full reports will be required for the Exam Committee, when finally deciding whether or not Mr Lensen is worthy of a pink slip.

It was decided the Ladies in Klatch should be fully appraised of this consideration and allowed to make their own decision. At the very least they were to retrieve Mr Lensen's working equipment, even if they could not rescue the man himself. To sweeten the pill, it was to be made a formal contract, say three thousand each after Guild Tax and subject to conditions.

JSR1 asked – what if they can't let him out? Boy was an irritating little tick, she knew, but slavery? Or, it occurred to her, interrogation by Khufurah's special palace employees?

DD made a decision. He pronounced Let it be known, for the record, they may have to administer the Misericordia. Let us hope it does not come to that.

After a silence, the other Issue Arising was discussed. AB said that in her opinion, Miss Miriam bint-Alhazred, Sultana of En al Sams la Raisa, had been a fairly honest, diligent, and conscientious student. Her conception of honesty, however, was a uniquely Klatchian one based on the definition of the word in that nation. Which may differ in many respects from ours. Klatch is, after all, a very old sophisticated nation, with all that implies.

CdY said you have been warned.

AB said Precisely. But based on her understanding of Klatchian custom, Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah can count on her for precisely three days of sacred hospitality. Which means they're completely safe. After those seventy-two hours have elapsed, however, they had better run like hell. But three days should buy those two capable people the time they need to resolve things. I'd be very surprised otherwise.

DD said that for the duration of three days, they then have a competent and very able Senior Assassin, with experience of contract completions, who is obliged by the law of Sacred Hospitality to assist, guide and advise to the best of her ability. The Guild will also send her a suitable letter of introduction. Our people can sink without trace into a safe house. For seventy-two hours. Good.

It was agreed to so advise Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss ben-Devorah by urgent Pegasus. JSR2 was requested to prepare any personal messages of her own.

With no further business, Lord Downey thanked everybody for their time and attention, and the meeting rose.

* * *

 **(1)** refer to my tale Hyperemesis Gravidarum, in which Mariella stings the bookies for quite a lot of useful cash to supplement her pocket money allowance.

 **(2)** See my story The Black Sheep. Where Mariella Smith-Rhodes and her draft of new students from Rimwards Howondaland arrive at the Guild, aged eleven. Horst Lensen stood out then, for all the wrong reasons.


	8. Enter the Sultana And Glod

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Eight: The Sultana. Or perhaps a Begum: our travellers encounter a lady of leisure**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, in Rimwards Klatch and have been faced with a conundrum. They may have to manumit a slave. With or without the consent or indeed the knowledge of his current owner. They have found a way of sending safe communications home. But there is also the problem of the Sultana to resolve. And she will turn out to be neither sweet nor wrinkly.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _ **March. In the deeper part of Klatch, around the desert oases of Tzit and Otherz and the remote hidden settlement of En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, where people have, mainly, settled for very little.**_

 _In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

Well, we are currently in the home of a person who we are fairly sure we can view as a reliable friend and who has extended us every hospitality. We are reasonably sure we are safe and our whereabouts are now concealed from the Klatchian authorities. But more of this later.

Thank you for the necessarily brief letter, by the way. It is warming to know we are well thought of. The $AM2,500 is an unexpected bonus. Although Rivka said she would have started the haggling at $8,000 in the expectation of being beaten down to an acceptable $5,000. As she is currently on a limited income, she is, I think, pleased.

We left off our account yesterday under the time constraint of needing to bring you up to date without unnecessarily delaying Irena, who was on a tight schedule with two other Consulates in the region to visit. Feegles have the marvellous gift of craw-stepping which cuts the travel time, but even they cannot travel back in time. As it turned out, the delay was caused by the egregious Sir Michaelmas Selachii being absent from his post for so long. Irena fumed at the delay as she had verbal communications from Lord Vetinari to pass on in private and required his signature for the documentation she delivered. (It is wise never to inconvenience a witch, even one as pleasantly disposed as Irena). At least she was able to assure us Bekki and Famke are thriving. I so look forward to seeing my nieces again.

Is it true that if you become a mother for the third time, you are considering calling the new daughter Ruth, to irritate Mother, alarm Aunt Friejda, and piss off BOSS who will suspect you are naming her in honour of a Zulu Princess? They will not be able to prove it, of course. Ruth is such a pleasant and commonplace name and many white people are called Ruth.

I apologise for the coffee. So Doctor Bellamy advised you they are what are known as Klatchnikov Beans and should be taken very sparingly. And that the expression "a shot of coffee" takes on a new dimension. I hope you and Ponder will at some point be able to sleep again. At least this allowed you the night in which to gather your thoughts and prepare this letter.

I have to report that Sir Michaelmas was most unhelpful, even obstructive, even after he was advised that we are not, in fact, "beastly smelly wogs".

He refused to assist and even demanded we get out of his Consulate, pointing out that he was under no obligation to provide assistance as neither of us has Ankh-Morporkian nationality. Irena pointed out that he might wish to reconsider this, and he should ask to see our Guild licences which would offer a small clue as to _why_ he should be pleased to help. He ignored this and berated her for her insolence, he'd never been spoken back to by a lowly Watch constable before. We winced slightly. Pegasus pilots are of course not just Watch constables in the Air Police. By definition they are also Lancre-trained witches. We are expressly taught to seek to be on good terms with Lancre-trained witches. Prudent good manners.

"You've never met Sam Vimes, then?" she asked him. Apparently Sir Michaelmas has been away from the City for a long time.

He even objected to us reading the newspapers, even though these are expressly distributed not just for the benefit of Consular staff, but also as an amenity to travellers passing through who wish to remain informed.

"You are a bloody Boor!" he said to me. "Well, can't help you. Your country's nearest office is in Al-Khali, and I suggest you trot off there. Have a Boortrek, or whatever you damn people call it. Find some soap while you're about it." **(1)**

I reminded him of the protocol that if no Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy or Consulate is nearby, Ankh-Morpork looks after the interests of our people as we do theirs. He did not accept this. He also berated Rivka, declaring that she's a bloody damned Cenotian and her people are expressly prohibited from entering Klatch _at all_ , did she want to get everybody arrested for harbouring an enemy? Damn Cenotians, always sticking their big hooked noses in places that don't concern them. Do you want me to get shot for harbouring a spy? Do you, girl? (Rivka's nose is in fact quite nicely formed. Like the rest of her.)

Please could you mention to Uncle Pieter that this incident happened and Sir Michaelmas was most obstructive? Uncle Pieter will know who to speak to, I think, and I consider he should officially be made aware.

We refrained from correcting his speech and manner and accepted, very reluctantly, that the man had diplomatic privileges. We said a goodbye to Irena and went to reclaim our camels. Then we made camp by the date palms adjacent to the stagnant oasis.

We agreed we should not consume the water. It appeared alright for the camels, however. Camel guts are tough.

"That _schnauze_ line never fails to be original." Rivka said, touching her small and well proportioned nose. " _Oi vey_ , these big hooked noses are such a dead giveaway, aren't they? Marks me as Cenotian wherever I go. I know a good Igorina who does nose-jobs, charges reasonable rates."

She looked at me.

"And you're not smelly at all." she said. "Well, hardly ever. Is it true they send you to Gogga Island if you're caught in possession of soap?"

"It is a banned substance." I agreed. "Possession with intent to supply is against our criminal code."

"My enormous Cenotian nose. And your offensive body odour. Made for each other. _Gevalt_."

We speculated on how Sir Michaelmas might be taught manners. We ate, drank some of the clean water we needed, for the moment, to ration, and set camp. Then a strange thing happened. My camel, who I have called _Jou Bliksem_ **,(2)** raised his head as if contemplating an exciting new direction in multi-dimensional phase space theory. Rivka's camel, who she calls _Ben Sharmuta_ **(3),** also raised his head and the two looked fixedly at a certain point in the green water. Water, by the way, which looked cleaner than the River Ankh, but not by very much.

The water boiled and bubbled and then broke. We witnessed a small and bewildered Dwarf bobbing to the surface, his horned helmet dripping green slime. We assisted him to the bank where he lay gasping for breath, still clutching his axe.

He raised his head and looked alarmed.

"Thanks, miss." he said. "But where the Hell am I?"

"Where the Hell _were_ you?" Rivka asked him, getting to the point.

The Dwarf took off his helmet and scratched his head.

"That's the funny thing, miss. One minute I'm down the hole on a rope harness, right. You know, prospecting. Looking for things what turn up. We makes a living at it."

We must have seemed perplexed. He clarified.

"In Slice. In Lancre. We got The Place Where The Sun Does Not Shine. Things turn up there."

"Ah!" said Rivka and I together. Enlightenment was happening.

"And then the bloody rope snapped. Pardon my Klatchian."

"That could well be a very relevant thing to say…" Rivka said.

The dwarf looked about him.

"Lots of sand. Palm trees. Minaret. I'm in Klatch, aren't I?"

"En-al-Sams-la-Raisa." I said. "Also known as The Place Where The Sun Does Not Shine."

"That fits. We got a _twined town_ arrangement, apparently."

"Possibly twined more closely than you would think." I said. Such things are not unknown. I remember going to Scrote with you. Which boasts a twining arrangement with New Scrote. **(4)** How is Young Johanna getting on at School, by the way? And her interesting friend Emma? I have to admit I have warmed to both my other niece, and to my distant relative. Give them my regards.

Anyway, the Dwarf sighed deeply, in the manner of one who is having an interesting day, against his will.

"So I fell down. A long way. And I was thinking, have we annoyed any Witches lately? You don't annoy Lancre witches, miss. They does things like this."

"Ja. We know several." I said, thinking of Irena. Strictly speaking she is not from Lancre but from Zlobenia, although you would not realise this until she gets really angry. Far Überwaldean is as good as Vondalaans for swearing in.

"Anyway, I lost count of the seconds and thought, well at least I'll get to know if there's a bottom to this hole. For a second or so, anyway. We speculates about what's all the way down there, miss. Nobody knows for sure."

"It looks like you found out." Rivka said, encouragingly. "Let me guess. You found an oasis in Klatch."

The Dwarf nodded.

"I hit water." he said. "Had the sense to go in head-first so it wouldn't sting too much. Took a deep breath. As you do. And I sees this light. I'm thinking, well, I'll be seeing deceased ancestors next welcoming me to the Gingunnagap. And then I realises as how I'm not falling _down_ any more. I'm sort of falling _up_. And then I breaks surface, which was as well really as I'm running out of air, and it's all hot and there's all slimy water and sand. And then you and the other young woman is running to help me. Thanking you both kindly."

"Twined towns." Rivka said, looking at me.

"Share something in common." I agreed.

"Places where the sun doesn't shine." she said.

"Well, you're three thousand miles away from Lancre." I said. "You may as well eat with us."

"Sacred hospitality." Rivka said. "The standard offer is seventy-two hours, apparently."

We found some elderly flatbread at the bottom of a pannier. It was halfway to being dwarf bread and smelt strongly of camel. Our guest devoured it. I established a campfire and began stewing some couscous. It also allowed me to properly boil some of the oasis water.

We introduced ourselves. Rivka asked the Dwarf his name.

"Glod Glodssecondcousin, miss. Pleased to meet you both."

"A Dwarf called Glod." Rivka said, thoughtfully. "Something tells me you'll blend _right_ in, in this country."

We explained there was an Ankh-Morporkian Consulate in the town. I said that I had heard there was an agreement with King Verence, by which subjects of Lancre, in a place where there was no local representation, could call upon Ankh-Morpork to provide aid in the expectation that Ankh-Morporkians could expect similar courtesy from Lancre. Our new friend Glod might expect to gain assistance back to Lancre after his little mishap. He brightened up.

"I'll try that, miss!" he said. "To be honest all this could get a bit inconvenient. If I hadn't met you both, I'd be _really_ irritated."

He stood up and shouldered his axe. We said he could come back and share a meal with us. He waved cheerfully and strode over towards the Consulate.

Rivka grinned.

"You really are a bitch, Mariella Smith-Rhodes." she said. "It's one of the likeable things about you."

I reminded her concerning unfortunate remarks about big noses and lack of regard for personal cleanliness. As our evening meal cooked, we watched and listened.

"'Ere! Dwarf! What do you think _you're_ doin' tryin' to get in here, you little bugger? Bloody lawn-ornaments takin' the UGGGH!"

There was the thud of a body hitting the ground. Rivka nodded, sagely.

"Lance-Constable Nightsoiler." she said.

"The officious and unhelpful doorman." I agreed.

Then we clearly heard raised voices, in the Klatchian stillness.

"What do you MEAN, I ain't getting no help home? Ain't that what a Consul's meant to do?"

We heard Sir Michaelmas Selachii's braying voice taking pleasure in the mistaken fact that he was under no obligation to assist a Dwarf, and a Lancre Dwarf at that.

"Wrong county! What do you make of THAT, eh…UGGH!"

Another heavy body dropped.

After some time, Glod Glodssecondcousin returned.

He sighed deeply.

I know that didn't help none." He said. "But I had to vent. Bloody unhelpful buggers, miss. Miss. But you weren't to know." We motioned him to the couscous. Grains that reconstitute to four or five times their dried size are ideal trail rations, as you taught us. It had swelled into a sort of glutinous _mealiepap_ , but was palatable with salt, pepper and spices.

"Rest in our camp tonight." Rivka said. "It would be a help. After all, we _are_ two young girls travelling in a strange country. A strong dwarf with a sturdy axe would be a protection."

Glod's chest swelled with pride. I smiled. We could sleep tonight and somebody else would stand guard. Dwarf eyes, in the night.

Johanna, a desert sunset is a beautiful thing. Strange beauty in an inhospitable place. I turned my eyes away from contemplating the large palatial house with the high spiked walls, and watched the sun go down. For some reason I felt Homesick and recalled sunsets over the Veldt. But, I reminded myself, we would arrive in our Home at the end of this trek and see my Volk.

I was moved, and found myself humming a song. This may have been an error, as it turned out, but my guard was down. And I remembered nights on the Veldt when the people at the campfire would sing the old songs. I recall Father teaching me this one. Conditioning and good memories are dangerous.

 _Op 'n berg in die nag,_

 _lê ons in donker en wag._

 _In die modder en bloed lê ek koud,_

 _streepsak en reën kleef teen my_

"Mariella…"

" _En my huis en my plaas,_

 _tot kole verbrand sodat hulle ons kan vang,_

 _maar daai vlamme en vuur brand_

 _nou diep, diep binne my._

"You're _singing_ again!"

 _De La Rey, De La Rey,_

 _sal jy die Boere kom lei?_

 _De La Rey, De La Rey_

 _Generaal, Generaal,_

 _soos een man, sal ons om jou val._

 _Generaal De La Rey._

"That was nice, miss. Didn't understand the words, but I knows hole music when I hears it. And I'm betting as how you might not want to advertise round here that you're from _somewhere else_ , if you gets my drift. Got family. Emigrated to Howondaland and write back to say how weird.. _.different_.. the local humans are, but that don't matter none as there's so much gold-bearing strata under Kimberley!"

He was correct, of course. I am writing this late at night. I will get it to you when we rendezvous with Irena or Olga at the next pre-agreed point.

The next morning, we were allowing the warmth of the sun to fill us after another cold desert night. Then we saw the Pegasus appear in the sky. There was also a magic carpet keeping station with it. We watched as the winged horse and the carpet appeared to play games with each other. It did not appear as if they were together in the sky working for the same purpose. Instead a complicated aerial ballet appeared to work itself out. We watched as the two air-users converged their paths, diverged again, jockeyed for place and position, and at one point appeared to charge each other head-on, with both pilots swerving aside in opposing directions at the very last second, when it appeared inevitable that a collision would happen.

"I've heard about this." Rivka said. "They call it _dogfighting_. Like when two dogs are challenging each other for alpha status. Irena explained to me once how it works. Vetinari wants an insurance policy against another Klatchian attack on Ankh-Morpork. **(5)** The last time, the Klatchians intended to fly carpets in to land troops. We had nothing, apparently. One very old spluttering broomstick kept at the University. Ponder's got that now, hasn't he? Thought so. The Patrician wanted Ankh-Morpork to have an air force. Wanted the Klatchians to know about it. So we got Witches in the Watch. Broomsticks first, then the Pegasii."

We watched the combat for some time.

"Irena said they spent a long time doing this sort of mock-fighting. Broomsticks against carpets. Evolving tactics."

"Looks like real fighting to me." I said. I wasn't too sure and they were a long way away. But I thought I saw, on a close pass where the two came insanely close to each other, something passed from the Pegasus to the magic carpet. Rivka shook her head.

"If it was _real_ fighting, they'd be swapping crossbow bolts. Or magic." she said. "This looks like " _Let me show you what I can do_ ". You know. Showing off. Cold War, perhaps."

We stayed inobtrusively in the shadow of the date palms. If there were klatchians up there, they might be looking for us. You never knew.

Eventually the carpet stood off, but circled above, as the Pegasus came down to ground level and landed outside the Consulate. We realised our problem was now to retrieve whatever mail may have arrived for us, under the eye of a carpet pilot who was patiently circling six hundred feet up and who may have a telescope.

We watched Irena climb off and confer with her Feegle. Then both rushed into the Consulate.

"Whoops." said Glod. "I'm going to get into trouble for this, aren't I, miss?"

"We won't tell." I said.

"We didn't see a thing." Rivka agreed.

"Assault by person or persons unknown." I agreed.

Then Irena came out, locked the Consulate door, shook her head as if amused, and took her mount's reins. A small blue blur leapt up into the mane. She unhurriedly walked her Pegasus towards the oasis. Several small excited children followed.

She stopped dead at the edge of the water and made a disgusted noise.

"Gods, this water is _filthy_!" she said.

This was a good cue. I took down one of our waterskins from the back of Jou Bliksem, and approached her.

"Honest offendi! We have clean good water. Allow me to water your most marvellous mount!"

Irena smiled.

"She'll only drink from me. Tell you what, I'll take the waterskin. Thanks. Can you and your… friend…. kindly look after the message panniers for me? Thanks!"

Buggy Swires shook his head.

"Yon Klatchians'll thieve _anything_ , mistress." he said, in a loud voice. "'Tis a terrible thing. But now your back's turned, they'll have everything oot them pouches afore ye can say Annie Laurie. Mark my words!"

"It's a risk we'll just have to take, Buggy." Irena said. She focused on watering her Pegasus.

Above, the carpet was circling, but at a higher altitude. Rivka waited for it to turn away from us so that the pilot was presumably looking in a different direction. Then she deftly emptied the panniers of several items of mail. By the time the carpet pilot was pointing at us again, the panniers were closed and the mail spirited into concealment.

"It's all for you." Irena said, in Überwaldean. We understood: it wasn't a language too many Klatchians would understand. "Anyone listening is just going to think the mad foreign woman with the flying horse, she must be insane to ride it, is babbling to herself in her infidel tongue and prattling nonsense."

"What was all that about up there? All the aerial acrobatics?" I asked, in the same language. (Überwaldean was so easy to learn. Very like Vondalaans.)

Irena shrugged.

"It happens. You get this here. We're allowed to fly over Klatch on sufferance, the same way Vetinari allows the Klatchians to run carpets to their diplomatic premises in the City. But they've got a dedicated Air Force and usually send a military carpet or two up to make the point that we're only tolerated in their airspace. The moment we appear, there's always at least one of them shadowing us. We have to stick to agreed flight paths between accepted locations. There are places we can't go, by the way. Sometimes Vetinari suggests we stray off-route a little bit near places of interest. He's interested in how many carpets suddenly pop up to herd us away. The greater the number of carpets and the more insistent they get, the more likely it is that something's going on that they don't want us to see."

She grinned.

"Now and again you get a pilot who wants to break the monotony by playing a few games. Fun for us too. Oh, we call it "aerobatics", by the way. Shorter than "aerial acrobatics".

Irena paused, then asked

"Sir Michaelmas is a bit _indisposed_ right now. He's retired to bed with a headache. The door guard isn't feeling too well either. Nothing to do with you two, after yesterday?"

"I can confidently tell you it wasn't. Possibly a robbery attempt? Sir Michaelmas does not seem to be one who makes friends easily."

"I left a personal letter from Vetinari on his bedside table. Relating to what happened here yesterday. My betting is, Sir Michaelmas will have a lot more of a headache after reading that."

Buggy Swires sniggered. She finished watering her mount, and courteously offered the waterskin back.

"Got the panniers, Rivka? Thanks. Oh, word of mouth. From the Guild. You can trust Miriam bint-Alhazred pretty much completely. But only for three days. She will know you're coming and will make contact. It's in the mailing. Assassins' Guild seems to have work for you to do. And yes, Rivka, it's _paid_ work."

"Can you do us a little favour? This Dwarf needs a lift back. He arrived here unexpectedly and against his own will. Could you call it a Consular chore on behalf of Sir Michaelmas?"

Irena heard our story. She whistled.

"Whatever happened, it wasn't witches. Trust me."

She nodded at the camels, who were viewing her with suspicious eyes as they chewed cud.

"Wouldn't put it past the _camels_ , though. Tricky creatures. Listen, tell Ponder. He'd be interested. The last time I visited, he was explaining about how nobody fully understands how lots of water slops off the edge at the Rimfall but it never runs out on top of the Disc. He thinks there's some sort of circulatory system that funnels it all back, but nobody knows for sure. Apparently the underneath of the Disc is virtually unexplored, and the answer's down there. Maybe if one of you were to jump in that oasis and weighed herself down with a large rock, she'd pop up in Slice?"

"No, thanks." Rivka and I said together.

"For science? For a greater understanding of geotechnomancy? A favour to Ponder? Or for Mr Graumunchen, your old Geology teacher at the Guild?"

"No, thank you! And neither of us did Geology."

Irena grinned at Glod.

"I'm about done here. I'll just fix these panniers – got anything to send back? Thanks. And then you can hop on. As it happens I've got to go to Lancre. I need an M.O.T. from Jason Ogg. He's the only blacksmith who can do Pegasii. Lancre Town alright? When I get going, we can be there inside twenty minutes."

Glod gulped. I remembered Dwarfs are not happy at heights.

"I'll get you a blindfold." Irena said, kindly. "So you don't have to look down. Here's the brown paper bag, by the way. If you need to, I'd be obliged if you did, as I'll be sitting right in front of you. It has been known to get _messy_."

We said goodbyes, and waved Glod off, having made a friend in Slice.

And then we read the mail in the shadow, such as it was, of the date palms. Thank you, and to the Guild, for the briefings.

"$2,500." Rivka said. _Each_. _Oi vey_ , you get rich as an Assassin, don't you?"

"With $3,000 each if we succeed in getting that _bliksem_ out of prison." I said. A camel snortled.

" _nie jou, Jou Bliksem"_ I said.

Then we read the advisory note about Misericordia. Thank you, Johanna, for the emphatic advice not to even go there if there is any other conceivable way. The idea offends me, even for somebody like Horst Lensen. Rivka has shrugged and said if she still gets three thousand for ensuring he is dead, it simplifies the situation. I think it is her sense of humour. I think. But she inhumed for the first time when she was thirteen **.(6)** At least I now know for sure what happens to people who _seriously_ fail their Final Run. And I have not yet inhumed, Johanna. I came near to it when I was thirteen and more by luck than judgement, I impaled a wretch on a lance. Well, he was trying to kill me and may have had a different ending in mind for me. I have stunned or non-fatally injured others, but I have not yet killed. To be honest, the prospect alarms me and I try not to think of it too much. Do you have advice for me? And to kill a man, even Horst Lensen, in cold blood because it suits the convenience of the Dark Council. He is looking to me to help him escape and despite his not inconsiderable failings as a man, he is not attempting to rape or murder me. I'm just not sure I could do it.

Anyway, we were discussing the very specific guidance the Guild sent us, as we walked back into the town to find the nearest thing it has to a souk, in order to buy such available foodstuffs as we thought safe. While we had been able to boil and filter some of the oasis water, (still cleaner than the Ankh!) a reliable source of cleaner water was still on our minds.

 _The Misericordia is an absolute last resort and must not be undertaken lightly. Sadly, the Assassin may be confronted with a situation where a colleague is too badly wounded to safely move, or is at risk of revealing Guild secrets to inimical outsiders under duress, or deserves a cleaner end than your adversaries will eventually deliver. In these circumstances Misericordia is a work of mercy and necessity…._

Leading our camels, we tensed as the large figure loomed in front of us. She, for it was female, was a woman, but with armour, scimitar and shield. Nearly six feet tall and a formidable foe. We were reaching for weapons when some sense bade us stop.

Rivka hissed at me

"Archers. At least three."

And she was correct. Arrows move faster than hands and bodies.

The she-warrior sala'amed with respect. She did not draw her sword.

"Many apologies for disturbing your peace, esteemed offendis." She said.

"I bring the greetings of my mistress to whom my unworthy life is pledged, the Sultana and Begum Miriam bint-Alhazred. She sends greetings, bids ye welcome, and invites you to her home and her hospitality. I am charged with escorting ye. Remember, a refusal often offends."

We evaluated the situation as we are taught. The she-warrior watched us carefully.

"the arrows nocked in your direction are to protect us all, esteemed ladies… "

She consulted written instructions.

"Mariella Smit'-Hrodes. From the faraway country of Von-da-laand. Miss Rivka ben-Devorah. From Prince Khufurah's wayward province of Cenotia. I am also bidden to say, if you doubt that we come in truth from our lady, she is formerly of Tump House under the care of the most esteemed and terrible in her wrath Bandy Alice. Who despatches unworthy and unfortunate souls on the terrible Vimes Run. She did _doh-mes-tic -sci-ence_ with the fire-breathing monster Mrs Mericet. She knows there are fantastic creatures called meerkats living as pests under the floorboards of the Pottery Room. Senior students, in her day, considered Coffee Necros on Peach Pie Street to be a cool place to meet. And that the First Year Dorms are a Hell sent from Shaitan, to those who prefer warmth and comfort when trying to sleep at night."

Rivka looked at me.

" _Gevalt._ She's Guild." she said.

The warroris, who we realised were all female, fell in around us. We decided to walk with them, and led our camels. There seemed to be no alternative.

* * *

 **(1)** The inference that South African Boers are soap-shy is a big slur thown at them by the British. It can be a berserk button. It even crops up in the Spitting Image song _. "He's quite a nice South African. And he's hardly ever killed anyone! And he's not smelly at all, that's why we put him in prison!"_

 **(2)** Afrikaans: You Bastard!

 **(3)** Hebrew: son of a bitch!

 **(4)** See my _**Discworld Tarot**_ short, _**The King of Swords**_.

 **(5)** See _**Jingo**_ by Terry Pratchett.

 **(6)** see my story _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_ , in which a much younger Rivka uses a crossbow to deadly effect. Firing it through a hole in a door at a packed mass of people trying to break it down – well, you can hardly miss at that range. Mariella got to make a human kebab on a long lance.

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 _A woman for duty, a boy for pleasure, a (water)melon for ecstacy:_

An alleged quote from Persian verse epic, _The Rhubiyyat of Omar Khayyam._ Often used as evidence to support the alleged partiality of men in the Islamic continuum for, er, variant pleasures.

Research suggests this is an "urban myth" and Omar Khayyam's poetry does not anywhere contain this phrase. Although his translator Sir Richard Burton (the Victorian adventurer, not the actor) did translate a lot of classical Persian poetry that points in this direction, and whose translation of _The Perfumed Garden_ got him a court action for indecent publication. Elsewhere this is listed as "an alleged Turkish/Persian/Pashtun (Pakistani/Afghan) proverb and "melon" is often replaced with "goat" or "sheep". For this proverb to be attributed to so many nations suggests this is one of those nomadic slurs which people in one country will use to libel people from another – "It's not _us_ who are weird in a bad way, it's those Turkish/Pakistani/Iranian/Afghan bastards, _they're_ the ones who are into melons(*), honest!"

Also note the related joke, possibly from Kurdistan:

Q – why did Allah the all-merciful and all-compassionate invent women?

A – because sheep can't cook or keep house.

\- Researching this, the conjunction of "boys" and "melons" brought up some very dubious links. " _ **Seriously**_ into melons" sums it up. Ugggh. Literally. Had to pour a large glass of brain bleach. It was legitimate research, Officer. Honestly. There are some truly weird people out there.


	9. In the Perfumed Window Box

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Eight: The Sultana. Or perhaps a Begum: our travellers encounter a lady of leisure**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, in Rimwards Klatch and have been faced with a conundrum. They may have to manumit a slave. With or without the consent or indeed the knowledge of his current owner. They have found a way of sending safe communications home. But there is also the problem of the Sultana to resolve. And she will turn out to be neither sweet nor wrinkly.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _ **March. In the deeper part of Klatch, around the desert oases of Tzit and Otherz and the remote hidden settlement of En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, where people have, mainly, settled for very little.**_

 _In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

We have established contact with your former pupil and Guild graduate Miriam bint-Alhazred, who appears to be favourably disposed towards us and keen, for her own purposes, to assist us in seeking a resolution to the sorry business with Horst Lensen. And to afterwards speed our departure from Klatch. We have been studying maps and gazetteers in her personal library which are full of invaluable information concerning which direction we take out of her country. She is in agreement that we should not linger unduly, and has confirmed that Authority in distant al-Khali has ordered an investigation into our presence, with a view to detain and interrogate. But, she says, we have three days for rest, reflection and in which to make plans.

This business of three days, or seventy-two hours, is a small detail which is recurring time and again in Klatch. It appears to have almost mystical significance.

Thank you for enclosing cuttings from the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ , by the way. Uncle Pieter's monograph on the status of song in our society was most thought-provoking. I was most to hear our Hymn is being (after a fashion) publicly performed in the City. Although the theatrical review and iconographs of its performance at the Music Hall made me redden. I appreciate the lead singer (in, I suspect, a red wig) may perhaps have been meant to be me. But I prefer to wear more clothes than that, as a matter of course. It does seem to have caught the public imagination. Poor old Uncle Pieter, faced with the notorious literal-mindedness of the Morporkian. Being asked who this Marcus Fontaine is. And others who think the anthem refers to the ballet primadonna Margot Fontayne. Pieter must put on his straightest face when he informs them that it is in fact a place: Magersfontein, a great battle of the War of Independence. Which is the same thing as the Boor War, ja.

And people also ask him who this bloke Boris Kriyger was, then. Must be important if he's in every chorus. Still, if Vondalaans is not your language, there will be such misperceptions. As we are both boereskreigers from a long line of boereskreigers, farmer-fighters, and I in particular now know what it means to be a boereskrieger, they can be forgiven.

By the way, I never knew that when you were a student at the Guild and had to satisfy the Concordat criteria demonstrating a competence at music, you performed the Vondalaanderhart anthem before Doctor von Ubersetzer. This appalled a fellow student from Sto Kerrig, who could follow the words? I find this amusing **.(1)** At least I was spared playing an instrument; now Miss Björksdottir is on the teaching staff and coaches singing voices, my rendition of the Dwarf Opera aria _**Your Little Axe Is Frozen**_ to (somebody else's) piano accompaniment was held to be satisfactory. Her training in voice production was thorough and useful, and I thank her.

Thank you for passing on the information that Trudie and Susannah, who graduated with me, got Home safely and have completed their basic induction training into the Army. After the Guild School, this must have been comparatively easy. I am pleased they have now been posted to the Officer Training School at Piemberg Barracks. And that Father has extended the invitation to them to spend weekend leaves at our family plaas in the Veldt. So Trudie is riding with the volkskommando patrolling our side of the River, and she and Susannah have placed Devices of your invention at places where Zulu scouts have been suspected to cross clandestinely. Of course, some Zulus may well also be Guild-trained and know how to recognise and avoid such things. This makes for an interesting situation. No doubt Father will keep you informed. Send him my love.

The story. We were met by a welcoming party of warriors in the Service of their Sultana, who most politely bade us accompany them for an audience with their mistress. As we had received news that she was to be trusted, we were not wearing armour, and several bows were not quite pointing at us, we elected to go with them, and for the first time we got to see inside the walled building just outside the town.

The gates were opened by sweating male servants, possibly slaves, who were treated with condescending disinterest by the warriors. We led our camels inside and saw, to our great interest, harmonious, well-tended and green gardens with lush vegetation. This was unexpected, but of course a walled estate such as this is likely to have its own supply of reliably clean water. This was reassuring. Our camels were politely taken from us by slaves and presumably led to stables.

"Can we at least get our luggage?" Rivka asked, meaning "I do not intend to be separated from my Assassin equipment".

The warrior woman in charge smiled apologetically.

"Nothing will be interfered with or stolen, my lady. The mistress insists you are to be treated with the courtesy due to members of the Guild. Your baggage will be delivered, in its entirity and unopened, to the rooms you are to be allocated."

In the circumstances, we believed her. Besides, several bows were being courteously pointed at us. That was a consideration too. At least we still wore swords and daggers and had other useful items on our persons, so we were not weaponless. We also noted how a walkway ran around the inside of the wall. This made the premises, from the inside, not so much a home as an easily defended fortress. And the homestead itself was large, well-kept and well appointed, in the classical Klatchian style, a palace of impressive and gracefully proportioned arches, collonades and windows. We were led to conclude the owner was not short of money or resources.

And we were led to a reception room, where a cool fountain played, richly decorated with mosaic, brocade and well-lit from well sited windows. It demonstrated taste and style.

A woman was reclining on a couch, being fanned by two slaves, who we could not help but note were well-proportioned young men, naked to the waist and otherwise clad in loose diaphanous trousers. Of the sort a rich Caliph might insist were worn by slave girls.

The woman herself was dressed comfortably and stylishly in richly decorated clothing with restrained jewelled and gilded decoration, her midriff bare, a jewel of some sort in her navel and loose leggings of the sort described as "harem pants". She wore expensive-looking earrings, bangles, anklets and necklace, and a headband in satin and silk. Her long black hair fell to her shoulders and the dominant motif of her clothing was, in fact, black. She was also voluptuously beautiful, although in my opinion and that of Rivka when we discussed the matter later, she had a large platter of Klatchian Delight to hand, and should really cut back on the stuff if she did not want those voluptuous hips to become three times as wide when she got older. We agreed this is a little surprise her thirties and forties will undoubtedly spring on her. Cowbag.

It was a long way from the modest uniforms of the Guild School, even the more relaxed dress code permitted to senior girls, which does grudgingly acknowledge there are people of the feminine gender in there somewhere. (Johanna, why is it that only in the sixth form are we allowed to experiment with the sort of clothing we will be wearing as adult women outside the School, and then only under strict guidelines? We should get tuition in style and presentation of this sort if we are expected to move confidently in social circles which do not insist on school uniform. And the only institutions which expect adult women to dress as schoolgirls are in the purview of Mrs Rosemary Palm, who heads a different Guild with different priorities!)

In the presence of this dark sophisticated Klatchian beauty who only a few years ago was a School pupil like us, who we remembered as having worn the same School uniform as we did, we suddenly felt like gawky and awkward schoolgirls again. Please forward our suggestion that this is a psychological weapon which can be used against female graduates? It was, I think, deliberate and it worked on us. We were overawed, to a degree.)

"Mariella Smith-Rhodes." she said. Her voice carried an Ankh-Morporkian overtone, which is perhaps inevitable after living in that city for seven years. People from Home remark on my sounding like a bloody Porkkie, what's wrong with your voice, Mariella?

"A younger sister of the greatly respected Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who in her disciplines I remember as a most exacting tutor. And Rivka-ben-Devorah, one who her male counterparts describe, often in hushed voices, as the Scary Mary all other Scary Maries bow down and do homage to. A Cenotian, one who by rights is barred forever from entering Klatch. Yet she is here. Interesting. Both from Black Widow House, initially under the somewhat indulgent care of Emmanuelle les Deux-Epées, Comptesse de Lapoignard, who left her personal stamp on all girls she mentored. I was under Miss Alice Band in Tump House, by the way, whose care of us was also loving, in its way, but a sterner and more austere form of tough love. Often indistinguishable from casual sadism, we thought, but always with a purpose to it. How we envied you more fortunate ones in Black Widow! Especially when you passed into the pastoral care of the eccentric-but-kindly Quirmian-Acerian with a passion for ice-skating, and combat with axes as her preferred weapon of choice. It must come from chopping down inconvenient trees. Of which there are many in Aceria, I'm told. Never been there."

Miriam bint-Alhazred smiled a warm sensual smile.

"But I forget my manners. Please be seated."

She reached for another Klatchian Delight as we sat, and clapped for a slave to offer the salver to us. We noted that he smelt of some sort of rich heady perfume and was impeccably groomed.

"It is made to the recipe taught by Miss Sanderson-Reeves, of her own devising." Miriam said. Rivka paused with a piece of sweetmeat, richly dusted with what we had only assumed to be icing sugar, halfway to her mouth.

"Is this some sort of test?" Rivka asked. "Like the almond slices or mint humbugs the Master always offers you?"

"Whatever may justly be said about Mrs Mericet, she knows how to prepare foodstuffs." Miriam said. "And I assure you these lack the _special_ additives she recommends on the Advanced Domestic Science module. I was pleased to study both with her and with my Lady T'Malia at advanced levels."

I noted for the first time that Miriam wore a lot of rings. Among all the other jewellery, they had escaped notice.

Well, she was eating the stuff too. I took a piece. It's amazing how you crave sweet things after going without for weeks.

"Please be at ease. You are guests in my household. For seventy-two hours, as the law of sacred hospitality demands." Miriam said. "This means that your welfare is paramount, your health and ease are my concern, I must offer you the best of everything, and if a foe attacks this house with the intent of harming you, I am obliged to defend you as if you were family. Which in a sense, you **are**. Congratulations on receiving the Dagger of Honour, by the way. I placed highly in my year but not _that_ highly."

"And on the seventy-third hour?" I inquired.

Miriam smiled. There was a sort of humour in it.

"Plenty of time for that later, I think." she said, not answering my question. "You know, when a pair of my eyes reported seeing two women in this remote oasis who were dressed as men but on close observation were not men, my curiosity was piqued. Women in Klatchian society are expressly bound not to dress as men and are strictly prohibited, Where It Is Written, not to carry weapons. Some women in this society resent such arbitrary restrictions. I employ the best of such women and give them an outlet. Is that not incorrect, Sofia?"

She indicated the captain of her guard, who bowed respectfully.

"And I thank you, my lady." said the warrior-woman.

"That pair of eyes reported one of the two was Klatchian in appearance. The other, however, had a pale skin and red hair. Which could simply mean she was from _Candwa al-sher Alahmir_ , or else another strangeness peculiar to Ur. And last night, after unpleasantnesses at the Ankh-Morporkian Consulate, a pair of ears in my employment reported that the red-haired one from Ur had been moved to celebrate the sunset by singing a song in a strange infidel language. The song somewhat moved my listening ears, and as they are a very good pair of ears, the associated mouth sang me such lines as he recalled of her song. He said it had an agreeable but simple rhythm, as of a jody taught to children. Ah!"

A large dog bounded in. A very large dog. Miriam moved to pet him, and parts of her body moved in a most graceful and attractive manner. The cow.

"Fido! My beauty!"

I had recognized the dog breed. I wondered how many such dogs patrolled that garden at night. I felt we had a smaller chance of leaving, if Miriam bint-Alhazred did not wish us to leave.

The dog allowed himself to be petted, his tongue lolling out appreciatively. He looked to myself and Rivka with doggy suspicion.

"Anyway, I recalled a lesson with the most-respected Doctor Smith-Rhodes. She was pleased with our progress, and digressed for some minutes, as teachers who are relaxed and in a good mood will. She spoke to us about what her people call the War of Independence, which Ankh-Morpork calls the Boor War, and the name and salient history of a hero called General Koos de la Rey was described. Her point was that history can be inaccurate and misleading. Her nation reveres the memory of de la Rey as a great general of great talent, a gifted tactician who defeated the Ankh-Morporkians in detail in many engagements. Her case was that he did not in fact _need_ to be a great general. All that was required of him was that on the day, he was a better general than Lord Rust, or Eorle, or Selachii. Which she said is not a great requirement and that this sets the bar rather low. Yet De la Rey is remembered as a great Vondalaander leader, and songs are sung about his exploits."

She looked at me, amused.

And when my pair of ears reported a red-haired woman with pale skin and freckles singing about a hero called General de la Rey, in what I recognized to be the Vondalaans language, my curiosity was greatly enhanced."

I admit it, Johanna. I had been incautious.

"A red-haired Vondalaander woman travelling incognito in my area of interest." she said. "For one moment I was concerned it might turn out to be Doctor Smith-Rhodes herself. I decided even then to request her to visit. And with your sister, such things are best phrased as polite requests."

Miriam smiled and petted her dog again. I was surprised. I had made her out as the sort who will own many cats.

"But I knew Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, these days, to be a mother of small children. So unlikely to be travelling too far as she was once wont to. The situation intrigued me. As their aunt, you must tell me about her children, Mariella. I even thought of coming out to take a look myself, in open defiance of Prince Khufurah's decree concerning me. But I chose to sleep on it. And earlier today I received a communication from the Guild of Assassins explaining a certain delicate situation, and asking me to provide aid to two travelers."

She nodded at a letter on the table. Even from where I sat, I could recognize the Guild's notepaper and letterhead.

"When I was reminded that Doctor Smith-Rhodes has a sister who recently graduated from the School, the conundrum was explained."

The dog padded over to us to investigate. He chose me. I admit I was a little irritated that our hostess was being so quietly smug, as if she felt she had everything wrapped up entirely to her own satisfaction. I determined to stop that and throw a little soap powder into her fountain, as big hearty men with little sense of humour or originality will when they see a fountain and have soap powder.

I stood, and stared out the dog.

Johanna, did I mention that she owns **Boerboels**? You know the breed: the only dog in Rimwards Howondaland which can make a Ridgeback look small. Bred for hunting, to guard, to defend. Enormous mastiffs. But they can be loyal, affectionate and very friendly to those who they love and respect. I understand you may soon be looking for new puppies to raise, to replace the much-loved and much-missed Kaffee and Crème who died at a good old age. Consider Boerboels, Johanna, rather than new Ridgebacks. That way they will not be in competition, in people's minds, with the much-loved dogs they are replacing. And brought up from puppies, they are gentle and loving to children.

"Bly!" I commanded. "Sjit!"

I placed my hand on Fido's rump to encourage him to sit. He sat. His tongue lolled, and without losing eye contact, I fed him a piece of Klatchian Delight as a treat and praised him as a big strong good boy.

Miriam looked on impassively, and her eyes flickered for an instant. Good.

"Very impressive." she said. "I did not take into account those dogs originate in your nation. But Fido is something of a house-dog. I counsel you not to attempt that with the _other_ Boerboels. The ones who roam my garden at night. Who I do _not_ allow into the house."

"Why Fido?" I asked. This name means "I am faithful" in Latatian and is bestowed by unimaginative people who cannot think of anything more original. Lots of dogs in Ankh-Morpork are called Fido.

She shrugged. Parts of her jiggled, divertingly. Hag.

"It amused me at the time." she said.

Rivka let out a long-held breath.

"The Guild communicated with you." she said. The question was implicit.

"It happens now and again. It has to be done in such a way that nobody becomes suspicious. Fortunately there is a regular communications flight from Ankh-Morpork. The pilot carries messages for me, when required, as well as for the complete oaf at the consulate."

We both looked at her. Fido nuzzled my leg and began dribbling.

"That means he likes you. You are fortunate. Look. You witnessed the mock combat between a carpet pilot and the flying horse from Ankh-Morpork. I represent Khufurah's interests in this place. Flights from Anhk-Morpork are escorted, as is customary. _Who do you think was flying the carpet?_ And drew so close that Irena Politek could pass me a discreet letter?"

We recalled that even as a student, Miriam flew missions for the Guild. I stored up the memory of her disastrous Vimes Run as a possible barb for use later. Miss Band sent her to target Sam Vimes from the air. Being young and incautious she had not stopped to think there is such a thing as an Air Police who would counter her approach. It had resulted in the inevitable dunnikin. Although Sir Samuel paid for the carpet to be cleaned. He is a fair-minded man.

"Irena never told us that." I said.

"She works for Vetinari. She is not obliged to tell you _everything_." Miriam replied. True, of course.

"But I will show you to your room. By now your baggage will have been conveyed there. My stablehands are tending to your camels, by the way. You can freshen yourselves, as frankly you are both beginning to smell of deserts and camels. And later on there will be dinner. We can then discuss the business of the fool called Lensen, and what will be an ever-more pressing need for you to cross a border soon."

She clapped for a servant. Or a slave. We were led upstairs to a very well appointed room. There was only one bed in it, but it was big enough for perhaps six or seven.

"The Sultana apologises for the need to place you both in the same room." said the servant. "It means your movements are easier to monitor, and you will be together for mutual reassurance. She considers you are inseparable friends and it is courteous not to separate you."

Rivka sighed.

"Oi vey. At least I know you don't snore." she said.

"There is a bathroom through the curtain, esteemed ladies." The servant said. "People have been detailed to attend to your needs."

"does she have any _women_ servants?" I said, pointedly.

"There are maids." the major-domo said. "The Sultana considers there are limits to what male bodyservants are capable of, and she prefers manicures and pedicures and so forth are best delivered from skilled women. Her men provide _other_ services."

He hesitated for a second.

"I am instructed to attend most attentively to your every wish." he said. "If you prefer male servants to _attend_ on you, I can facilitate this…"

There was something in his emphasis.

Rivka hurriedly said

"No! Send _women_!"

"As you wish, esteemed lady."

He bowed and departed.

Twenty minutes later, we were relaxing in a bath the size of a swimming pool, and allowing our hair to be tended to, by very skilled maidservants.

"And we get this. For three days. _Gevalt_." Rivka said. "It beats shivering in a blanket on the side of a sand-dune."

"Seventy-two hours." I reminded her. "And to be on the safe side, let's say the clock started ticking when Sofia and her archers stopped us in the souk."

"So we need to be gone by… ten in the morning, on Friday."

"Exactly."

But for now, we felt we could relax.

* * *

 **(1)** See my early tale _**The Graduation Class**_. In which a much younger Johanna has to show _some_ proficiency at _something_ musical, as per syllabus and requirement for a well-trained Assassin to demonstrate some sort of cultural and musical inclination. Although Alice Band, in the same class, was really put through the mill of hideous social embarrassment.

 _ **Notes Dump:**_

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 ** _Margot Fonteyn_ was for many years the prima ballerina with the Royal Ballet Company in London. She must have an alter ego at the Ankh-Morpork Opera house. **

_A woman for duty, a boy for pleasure, a (water)melon for ecstacy:_

An alleged quote from Persian verse epic, _The Rhubiyyat of Omar Khayyam._ Often used as evidence to support the alleged partiality of men in the Islamic continuum for, er, variant pleasures.

Research suggests this is an "urban myth" and Omar Khayyam's poetry does not anywhere contain this phrase. Although his translator Sir Richard Burton (the Victorian adventurer, not the actor) did translate a lot of classical Persian poetry that points in this direction, and whose translation of _The Perfumed Garden_ got him a court action for indecent publication. Elsewhere this is listed as "an alleged Turkish/Persian/Pashtun (Pakistani/Afghan) proverb and "melon" is often replaced with "goat" or "sheep". For this proverb to be attributed to so many nations suggests this is one of those nomadic slurs which people in one country will use to libel people from another – "It's not _us_ who are weird in a bad way, it's those Turkish/Pakistani/Iranian/Afghan bastards, _they're_ the ones who are into melons(*), honest!"

Also note the related joke, possibly from Kurdistan:

Q – why did Allah the all-merciful and all-compassionate invent women?

A – because sheep can't cook or keep house.

\- Researching this, the conjunction of "boys" and "melons" brought up some very dubious links. " _ **Seriously**_ into melons" sums it up. Ugggh. Literally. Had to pour a large glass of brain bleach. It was legitimate research, Officer. Honestly. There are some truly weird people out there.


	10. In purdah

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Ten: on khetbah, khutubah and fiq.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Gods, I could do with more reviews. these seem to have stalled after about Chapter Four. Most dispiriting. And no, I'm not fishing for compliments. it's nice to have feedback, good or bad or nonsequeterial!**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, the most honoured and esteemed guests of a Sultana. For seventy-two hours, at least. They have a Guild contract to complete. It does not, yet, involve inhumation.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

After several weeks of basic eating and minimal recourse to trail rations supplemented by what we could buy on the route, we were treated to what Miriam considered to be "an unremarkable simple meal, but I'm sure you can make allowances."

It was a multi-course feast, served by relays of the male retainers (who I suspect are slaves), all of whom without exception are strikingly attractive and minimally dressed young men no older than their early twenties. We tried not to let ourselves be distracted.

It was also surprisingly pleasant. Miriam was keen for news of Ankh-Morpork and the School, and we were able to oblige with lots of stories. In return she told many anecdotes of her time there, some of which were new to us. The incident at the Zoo with Miss Wiggs and the incontinent elephant, for instance **.(1)** Miss Wiggs appears to be a magnet for this kind of thing. I would not like to pay her cleaning bills.

She had many amusing tales about interaction with the teaching staff. As I believe you read these letters out in the staffroom, I will try not to embarrass you too much. But her account of the doings of Miss Perry-Bowen when she was a student? The Miss Perry-Bowen who now assists Madame Emmanuelle in Swords instruction **? (2)** I will not say more, except that I appreciate your role is to metaphorically put a bomb under people to get the best out of them, and that sometimes this may backfire… I understood she and her almost-husband also took gap time after graduating and were invited back to the School as Teaching Assistants. This is interesting, as a possible career option, but I'm not sure what I could usefully teach. Assisting Miss van Kruger (who wisely still intends to use her maiden name) in her Vondalaans classes on Saturday mornings was good experience, I think. As she is, these days, almost Family, I could not say "no"! How is Danie getting on? Give my exasperating brother my love. And a kick in the guava from me. As I know Mother is persistently keen to remind him, he is still unmarried (just about), he hardly needs it. But knowing his intended as I do, and knowing she is the best he's likely to get, please add a reminder from me. We both wear size five boots, after all.

We were mindful not to consume more than a token glass of wine, having not taken the stuff since the night we left Cenotia. We stuck to glasses of the most agreeable sherbert, and the Ghatian milk drink called _lassi_.

And after the agreeable dinner, our gracious hostess called for a hookah pipe. She should watch this habit: I'm certain it's not good for you long-term and serves to dull and slow the senses. We are taught, however, that mastery of the hookah is an integral part of Hashishim training. (It struck Rivka at that moment that the Society of Hashishim may well run its own version of the Mature Students' Course. Is Miriam, I wonder, a postgraduate of Mount Inhalat?)

We took several courtesy draws on the smoke, as good manners dictate. Rivka, who did Klatchian Cultural Studies, had advised me that to refuse the hookah when it is offered by your host is a social faux pas.

Miriam looked on in a tolerant way until the coughing had stopped.

"Perhaps the bhong is not for everyone." she said. "Well done for trying. I was also flattered by the courteous way you both dodged the sheeps' eyes, by the way."

"Almond slices again." Rivka said. "And while they're kosher, I have difficulty with food that makes big appealing sheep's eyes at me."

"At Home, they may perhaps be minced and go into cheap sosetjies." I said. Uncomfortably, I thought of food thought good enough for black servants. I recall, on the Piemberg road, the Jojo abbatoir, and manufacturers of meat-related foodstuffs for pets and servants **.(3)** Out of town on the upwind side, so its smell does not distress residents. Perhaps it was the little of the bhong I'd taken, but clear memories were coming back. Including memories of smells. for a second or two I felt nauseous.

"The dogs will eat the sheeps' eyes. Nothing is wasted. And take deep steady bbreaths. It will pass. Ah yes. Home. Tell me about your homes and families."

We were beginning to get the impression that Miriam is starved of company, and the little small coinage of ordinary life. So we described our homes and families and the way they inevitably shape us. She expressed great interest and asked many questions.

I described how I am the youngest of five children, and how our Mother is pleased that both my older two sisters and my older brother have knuckled down to it, married acceptable candidates, and started families. That now she has no need to remind Johanna any more, and both Agnetha my sister and Andreas my oldest brother have settled down with spouses and children, she is focusing her efforts on my brother Danie, who is currently unmarried. I have mixed feelings about Danie having, incredibly, come to Ankh-Morpork (perhaps to escape Mother) and even more incredibly, at the prompting of a woman who finds him to be of interest. I suspect that now _two_ sets of parents are on the case, a long-delayed marriage to Heidi van Kruger will soon happen. Which means that Mother then only has my life to direct. i await this attention with deep joy and anticipation. Not.

"Ah, yes." Miriam said, knowingly. "I wonder. Will it cause confusion to have two teachers at the Guild School who share a name? A Doctor Smith-Rhodes, and a Mrs Smith-Rhodes? Time will tell."

"Yet Heidi knows the family she's marrying into." I said. "And she isn't deterred!"

Miriam shook her head.

"Her life will not lack interesting event." she said, and invited Rivka to talk of her own family.

She nodded sympathetically as Rivka described Cenotian family life, about how a resolutely unmarried adult daughter is considered to be a social disgrace and somewhat lacking, and about how her mother, female relatives and a posse of yentas are conspiring to remedy this unfortunate situation as soon as may be arranged.

"Ah yes. The formidable Yenta Goldberg. I have heard of her reputation as a broker and arranger of marriages. At least even she cannot pursue you into Klatch."

Rivka gloomily said she wouldn't be so certain. A Yenta on the case is not easily deterred. A closed border with a country that doesn't allow Cenotians to enter, on pain of detention, torture and possibly death, would not put her off.

Miriam took Rivka's hand, sympathetically.

"Maybe we're not so different after all. Klatchians and Cenotians do share a lot of common cultural heritages and even some similarities of religion. Let me tell you about myself…"

Miriam, like us, had left her home at the age of eleven to board at the Assassins' School. Her grandfather, a minor Emir in the counsel of the ruling Princes, and by Klatchian standards something of a social progressive, had arranged this unprecedented training for a mere girl, considering she had promise.

"I arrived, one girl among a group of Klatchian boys, with my peers professing incredulity as to my presence, and laying bets among themselves as to how soon I would die, or otherwise prove unsatisfactory. I made it my business to prove them wrong. Miss Band, my Housemistress, recognised this in me and was most supportive. The estimable Madame Emmanuelle too, and indeed your older sister. Even the frightening Mrs Mericet. At the time, the only female teachers in the School."

Miriam smiled.

"And Ankh-Morpork changes us all. I see a Cenotian girl wanting to break away from her society's cultural expectations. I see a Vondalaander who now doubts the superiority of the white race and who is uneasy about the social system called apartheid. In which I am classed as a _coloured_ , I note.

"I returned, seven years later. My grandfather had died and my parents had inherited his place. Father's position was weakened in that he'd given support, wrongly, to the Prince Cadram faction who wanted war with Ankh-Morpork. Young, naïve, and caught between two cultures, I was informed that whatever plans my grandfather had for me no longer applied. I was reminded of the duty of the Klatchian daughter, to marry young and provide her husband with heirs. Pressure was applied. A broker of mahr, the bride-price, was consulted. Brokers of mahr have much in common with yentas, by the way. Implacable people. I submitted to pressure. I became the youngest wife of a sultan who was rising in the Khufurah faction. This was to strengthen my father's position at Court, to act as proof of his loyalty, and of his submission to Prince Khufurah. I ended up here, junior wife to the Sultan of En-al-Sams-la-Raisa. The embarrassing daughter with her head stuffed full of nonsense by an infidel education in Ankh-Morpork, consigned like all undesirable and unwanted things to The Place Where The Sun Shines Not."

She took another long draw on the hookah.

"What can I say? I entered, if not Hell, then to Shaitan's Purgatory, the outer waiting room of Hell. The older wives, meant to treat me as a sister, considered me a lowly thing not much above a servant. My husband was... well, he had a good side. He was not a man I completely loathed and despised. But certain things were a trial.

"I was two years a wife. I sought to keep in touch with the Guild and friends there. A faithful servant, now the major-domo who administers my household, acted as the intermediary to send and receive letters. Madame Emmanuelle and Miss Band, who remained sympathetic, one day sent me details of a Guild contract. On my husband. I sent back notice of my intent. And unhappily and unexpectedly, my husband sickened and died."

Miriam smiled.

"I did tell you I was trained at an advanced level by Lady T'Malia and Miss Sanderson-Reeves. I learnt much. It was useful knowledge. After that, the obstacles to my happiness were my so-called "older sisters", the senior wives. The most senior wife inherited the Sultanate – at least until such time as a new husband might be found who would assume the role. She also became even more imperious in her treatment of me and confused me with a house-slave. When one day she demanded sherbert, you lazy ungrateful girl, and this time make it taste of something. I provided the sherbert. It did indeed have an extra taste. Possibly contaminated sherbert powder. But she too sickened and died unexpectedly. Insh'Offler. And then the second wife, one slow to grasp changing reality, who in her turn inherited the Sultanate, demanded I set up a hookah for her."

Miriam sighed.

"In this case, the very bhong must have been contaminated. She too sickened and died. The third wife, now the Sultana, sought to go one day on a horse ride in the desert. She was lost in a sandstorm. I rode back alone in a state of distress and raised a search. Alas, to no avail.

"And now I was Sultana. And determined to cede this to no man. And certainly not to a second husband. I set about renewing this place, whose name translates as The Perfumed Window-Box of Delights, completely to my tastes. I had the completion fee for my husband, the possessions of my late so-called sisters, who had left no wills, not intending to die so early. thus their wealth passed to me. I had this house and the estates, I had my late husband's fortune. Life had improved radically. Insh'Offler."

Being in the presence of somebody who casually admits she's inhumed four times – once as a contract and three times to enhance her social standing (and, we inferred, for pleasure) is somewhat un-nerving. Especially when neither of us has, as yet, completed an inhumation contract. (And again I confronted the question – could I, Mariella Smith-Rhodes, do this thing in completely cold blood? Rivka probably would. I know my friend. She has depths and some of them may not be pleasant to swim in. But outside of defending my own life or with other reason to wish the client inhumed. I just do not know.)

Miriam patted Rivka's hand.

"I began to staff this place with servants of my own choosing. Sofia and the others came to me. I have sympathy for a girl or a woman wanting to step outside social constraints. I pass the time training them in other skills. They are fiercely loyal to me and have taken my salt."

She indicated a manservant. Or possibly slave.

"Marital life, and the fact that as the youngest and freshest of his wives, my husband almost always commanded me to attend his bedchamber, opened my eyes to other possibilities." she said. "Oh, I was so very popular with the other wives. Granted, he was fairly inept. But I had enough glimpses of what it could be. Once I was in a position to do so, I determined to live a life where I can enjoy all the advantages of marriage without the disadvantages. Such as a husband. My pretty boys provide the advantages. And when I tire of them, I can sell them on. They know this and are aware their next owner may not be so indulgent to them. They also see Sofia and the ladies of my guard. Discipline is administered, on those rare occasions it is called for. The pretty boys are therefore obedient." **(4)**

We understood. And I felt a sneaking admiration for her. Not that I'd ever do anything like this, of course. But…

"So, you see, Rivka. It is possible to break from your conditioning and to rebel against social expectations. Given a large enough incentive."

I tried the hookah again. It wasn't so disgusting second time around. Rivka also took another hit.

"And then, as things here were taking the desired shape, I received the politely worded request to attend upon Prince Khufurah, as he so wanted to meet me. You do not refuse such a request. I travelled to Al-Khali, to be received by my Seraph, long may he reign. The Court bores me. Too many flatterers and hangers-on with rather brown tongues. But you do not refuse your Prince.

"He received me kindly, paid me great attention, asked about Ankh-Morpork and the Guild, then confirmed me as Sultana with all the lands and monies. After informing me that my father had accepted the posting to command a military garrison in Klatchistan, and that he rather fancied my family estates would soon be in doubtful ownership as Father had written no will and my brother, alas, had died in fighting on the Hersheban border, most sad, he directed me to postgraduate study which he felt would occupy my talents and energies. Thus I spent nine hard months at Mount Inhalat with a certain school who were keen to meet me. On my return to Al-Khali, my Prince remarked that I seem made of hard stuff. I believe he was hoping I would die in the mountains and remove an embarrassment. But I survived the Guild School. Nine months of postgraduate training was, by comparison, easy.

"Prince Khufurah then bade me return to en-al-Sams-la-Raisa to take up my estate. But, as people had been talking, no doubt unfairly, concerning the circumstances of my becoming Sultana, he advised me that in the circumstances, I was to go into purdah. Mourning for my late husband and for my elder-sisters-in-marriage. I might leave this house in great need, and to attend the temple on Friday to express a widow's mourning, but I am confined here for five years. Sent once more to The Place Where The Sun Shines Not. And to wear widow's black for those five years."

She shook a leg. She was wearing black. Yes. Just not very much of it.

"And here I am, a simple widow woman living in constrained circumstances."

So our hostess was a prisoner, effectively, who could barely leave house arrest and could under no circumstances leave the wretched village which was part of her domain. I reflected on the fact the townspeople in all probability paid rent to her. No different, and probably no worse, morally speaking, than Lord Rust or Eorle owning slums in Morpork and charging rent.

"It is tolerable. I make the most of it." she said, as if guessing my thoughts. "And I am Khufurah's eyes and ears in this place. Not that there is ever much to watch. The imbecile in the consulate is no threat. He is a lazy bombastic fool who drinks to excess, buys dirty postcards, and has assignations with Fat Ima. The requirement to escort the communications flight from Ankh-Morpork, when it appears in these skies, serves to break the monotony. Playing games in the air with Olga Romanoff or Irena Politek, such capable flyers they are, breaks the monotony for both of us. As Olga phrases it, otherwise it's miles and miles of bloody Klatchian sand, peppered with the _govno_ of camels and goats. The chance to pit our wits against each other in mock-combat keeps us both sharp. And both discreetly pass on mail, messages from the City and the occasional newspaper or magazine. I appreciate that. If they chose to land here, I would welcome them warmly to my home. But you never know who else is watching."

Conversation grew more sporadic and languid. I felt both sleepy and enhanced of senses. The Guild should expose us to bhong, I think, so we are not innocent of its effects and experience it in a totally safe environment. I can see it would be efficacious if used with evil or duplicitous intent. For Rivka and I it was the first time, and while pleasant and heady, it was interfering with our ability to think clearly. Also the top of my head was beginning to feel as if it was about to unscrew and float away. Rivka also felt this sensation, and joked that my head evidently has a left-hand thread. Which apparently suits my ornery and contrary nature.

Miriam said, eventually, that it has been a long day and she expected we were both tired?

We recognised a dismissal and thankfully retired to our room. We fended off a no doubt kindly made suggestion that some of the men could attend on us. The major-domo considered this for a second or two and said "We are understanding here, offendi, to your perceived needs. Two of our maids would be pleased?"

"No, thank you."

Rivka noted he had used a Klatchian word translating as "raised earthen embankment built on the side of a waterway so as to control the possibility of flooding", but she was too blissed out to object.

We were barely able to get undressed and into bed. And such a bed! Big, soft, warm. Neither of us was so unwary as to sleep completely naked, however. By that I mean we retained throwing knives. I was unsure as to whether I could throw one accurately, but at least they were there.

Strange thoughts were circulating in our heads. I joked that a possible way out of Rivka's predicament would be for her to come out as gay. She considered this.

"You don't know my mother." she said. "It would give her a dilemma, though. I can hear her. "My daughter, the lesbian assassin. My life, already! But at least her girlfriend is a doctor. In a profession."

We laughed. Or rather giggled, I was enthralled by the play of flickering light and shadow cast by the lamp. And inconveniently peckish. I was moved to take out a throwing knife and observe the play of light and shadow on the blade. For some reason this fascinated me.

Mariella?" Rivka asked. She too appeared intent on the play of light and shadow. A dog howled, surprisingly loudly and nearby. I almost understood the bark: a challenge to the night and a warning that if any intruder was stupid enough to challenge, that dog would surely fight. It was as clear as words.

"Yes?"

"Please tell me. Being naked in a bed together. It's a hell of a time to confess you're gay!"

""Don't you think it would have come out by now? After seven years?" I asked. "Miss Band would have spotted it and taken us somewhere for an off-the-record strictly unofficial pastoral guidance talk. Besides, I'm pretty sure I prefer boys. Well, reasonably certain."

"Likewise." Rivka said.

We did kiss, but as friends and close-as-sisters. (We don't need that pastoral chat with Miss Band: **nothing happened**. Although the idea was there and it was a pleasant one. Does bhong take away inhibitions?) It must have been the bhong: I had intense feelings of love for my best friend. And we talked some more and we laughed and wept a little together, and then we slept. I have to say I have never felt happier.

And in the morning real life resumed. And took a new turn.

* * *

 **(1)** See my story _**Zoo Tales**_.

 **(2)** Another plug. To my tale _**There's Nothing like A Fresh Pair of Eyes.**_

 **(3)** _The Jojo Petfoods and Servant Meat Cannery_ , referenced as a location in Tom Sharpe's _**Piemberg**_ farces of apartheid South Africa, which are a sideways influence on these tales. (Very bleakly funny and extremely black humour. Pun intended). Note the Jojo Cannery's marketing priorities, by the way. The Jojo, by inference, is the sort of place where CMOT Dibbler might buy the material for sausage-inna-bun. Or where Klaussie van Dijbbler gets the filling for, for the sort of bunny-chow that can hop away of its own accord.

 **(4)** It comes as a shock to get past the rather sweet _**Scandinavia and the World**_ and discover the other stuff drawn by that Great Dane, Humon. There is a definite BDSM vibe going on in a lot of her other stuff, and she's well into what is described as Femdom. One cycle of tales deals with a country manor run by a wealthy Lady who can afford to flaut convention. She has a staff of rather pliable young men of the correct disposition who get to wear things like French maid uniforms and who sometimes get wilful, and actively seek disciplinary correction at the hands of their Mistress. Hmm. Each to his own, I suppose.

* * *

Notes Dump:

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

" **Wedding Engineers" in Arab/Islamic society.**

Marriage in Islam requires _ijab_ and a _qubul_ (proposal and acceptance). Forcing a woman to marry a man means that there was no _qubul_ , this is the right of a woman, regardless of her age. Without it the marriage is a sham, like living in _zinā_.

"broker or arranger of mahr" – one who negotiates the bridal contract esp over _mahr (_ bride-price, dowry)

 **wikiIslam – The things you find when researching incidental information for stories. (If I'm going to send up Discworld's Arab world, and take it up to eleven, it's important to get these things right!) Hmm. I agree there should be a Web forum for informative and educative explanation of what it is to be Islamic, about the history, culture, theology and social aspects of the religion, and that it should air reasonable and genuine concerns and criticisms of the religion.**

 **I'm just not convinced that it's** _ **this**_ **site. The content reads as though as if it's Islamophobia and Islam-bashing given a scholarly gloss and the appearance of the "official" Wikipedia, to legitimise the sort of opinions you get from people whose heads are not geared up to joined-up thinking. It all seems like a highly convenient pseudo-intellectual site which is incredibly convenient for people looking to spread knee-jerk anti-islamic mentalities and as such echoes the religious right (Christian) lobby in North America. Who funds and backs it, I wonder? Its parent site appears to be very supportive of Donald Trump, for instance…**


	11. Conflict of interests

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Eleven: The slave market**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

" _ **Traffic Stats" is an interesting thing to dip into. I am flattered at the numbers of visitors and readers and note most are from Britain and the USA, as you might expect. But the geographical spread is fascinating. I've got readers in the Falkland Islands? Blimey. (Service folk out in the furthest reaches of the British Empire?) Also note my Israeli readership vanished after the girls left Cenotia. I've got readers in the United Arab Emirates, which amuses. Welcome to my unworthy humble tale, offendis. No South Africans, but a goodly number of Dutch people. Velkomst! (**_ _ **Of miskien - Welkom! Jy is baie vriendlik. Bly te kenne.)**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, the most honoured and esteemed guests of a Sultana. Who is giving full and generous assistance in the completion of a guild contract which needs careful thought and planning.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

Well, as our hostess remarked, a great benefit of the hookah pipe is that there is no hangover in the morning. As Mariella will no doubt report when she gets round to writing her own account, hookah and bhong are potent substances, and we earnestly recommend the Guild trains students in recognising its uses and the effects it brings about in the mind. We were almost completely unprepared for our encounter with it, and realise that our hostess was using it to lower the thresholds of alertness, caution and awareness. There could be dangers in this to the Assassin. We had some unexpected time in seclusion this morning and in the early afternoon where we were let to our own devices, and therefore could focus on getting our impressions of last night down on paper. Memories were at first hazy – an after-effect of the bhong - and we had to confer with each other as to what was said and what would be of most interest to you, and possibly to the Guild, in these informal reports.

It was strange to wake up in a pleasant languorous haze, also an after-effect of the drug, feeling warm and safe but with our arms around each other. This was also slightly alarming.

"Mariella?"

"Hmmph?"

"Please tell me we didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"You know. _That._ Alice Band. Blue Cat Club."

"We didn't. We'd have remembered."

I conceded this was true. Mariella reminded me that ever since we were both eleven, we have shared dormitories, buddied up in tents on Wilderness survival expeditions, shared a bed in your home when we were guests, and in the normal course of everyday living have seen each other naked or semi-dressed many times.

"Don't you think if anything like that was going to happen it would have happened by now?"

I conceded truth, but registered that we were in what is called the spoon position, with Mariella cuddled up to my back, her body against mine and her arms around my waist. I had to agree this level of intimacy was warming and pleasing. However, I pointed out that usually in such circumstances we have _some_ clothes on.

Neither of us was in a hurry to move, and the respectful knock on the door followed by servants- women servants – entering, was the spur to our returning to real life.

"The Sultana wishes you good morning. She has provided clothing for you to enable you to merge into our society, and respectfully bids you bathe, dress and join her for the breaking of fast."

I must therefore add – with a little embarrassment – that the bhong drug also lowers social inhibitions and renders the subject more tactile and open to physical sensation. This too could also be used as a weapon, perhaps to encourage the subject into unwise behaviour in a chamber where there are concealed iconographs. The potential for blackmail is obvious. I feel this should be reported in any formal account of our experiences here and used for guidance by the Guild.

With the maids in attendance, we bathed and groomed. So much water for bathing, in a desert! There must be a no doubt private water source here unconnected to the rank oasis, as the water is both clean and plentiful. A widdershinist would consider this is a case of the aristocracy stealing what should be a common resource available to all. I would consider it an unfortunate part of life, whilst trying to ensure I am on the side that benefits.

Then we were assisted in donning the uniforms of her personal guard, together with well-selected armour and helmets. We were assured our travelling clothing would be laundered and returned to us, but were able to ensure any items likely to be injurious to the launderers were removed first. As the Guild taught us, this is prudent, and also common courtesy. (I understand Lord Downey was once very severely spoken to by Mrs Manger of the Launderers' Guild, concerning un-necessary occupational injuries to her members tasked with washing Assassin clothing.)

Our hostess greeted us and invited us to share her modest breakfast. She too was dressed as a warrior.

"I have reflected on the matter, and I consider that in any forays into the town, you would attract least attention as members of my guard." she said. "It is known that two armed women dressed as young male warriors stopped in this place. Fortunately it is assumed you are supplicants for entry into my employment, and that this explains your unorthodox dress for women. No other suspicions have been aroused. If you are recognised, then, well, evidently the Sultana, in her wisdom and mercy, chose to accept you into her service."

She poured three measures of some excellently good coffee.

"A blend of common Klatchica coffee beans with just sufficient of the more potent Klatchnikov, to drive out the last lingering effects of bhong." she said. "A blend of my own devising."

Our heads soon cleared and we felt strangely energetic and full of vitality. This was as well, as the morning was composed of strenuous weapon training with Captain Sofiya and the Sultana's personal guard. We counted Sofiya and twelve strong and capable-looking women. We saluted Sofiya out of courtesy and a need to blend in, as a new recruit should do to her officer. The captain returned our salute, smiled slightly, then inspected our weapons. Mariella was carrying her machete; I, my Zlobenian Cossack sabre. I hold that this is the ideal weapon both for use on foot and from horseback, and ideally suited for both. Sofiya approved of it, praised its pleasing curvature, and said it would pass as typical for the horse-warriors of Klatchistan and not be out of place. The machete, however, was too straight, of obviously foreign configuration, and would be marked as a thing of strangeness here. Mariella was asked to exchange it for a local scimitar, which would be on loan to her for the duration of her stay.

And then, before the sun rose to noon, we drilled in use of weapons. Madame Emmanuelle is most thorough in her training and therefore we can assimilate new blades quickly. And these thirteen women were capable fighters. A series of mock-combats soon established that we could both hold our own among them, as Guild graduates should, and Sofiya was pleased with our ability. I also noticed Miriam joined in the training and for one we thought lost in sybaritic behaviour and self-indulgence, she was surprisingly good. But then, she is a Guild graduate too. With frequent breaks for water, after two hours we moved on to drilling with spears. Of course, spears and lances are Mariella's proficiency, as she once proved in the ultimate test.

Captain Sofiya had evidently been briefed. She said she had no need to ask if it were true that Mariella had once ran a man through with such force that not only the point of the lance, but the pennant behind it, had emerged from his back **.(1)** The rest of the guardswomen ululated approval at this. We had been accepted.

Then, at around eleven in the morning, a guard posted on the wall raised the alarm. Miriam and Sofiya went to confer. Miriam came to us.

"Quickly, and without haste, go to the room you were allocated. Remain until you are called. Wait! Take your machete. Its presence here would be noted as out of place. That weapon points to only one country on the Disc and questions might be asked as to who brought it here. We will talk later. Remember. You remain safe."

We sala'amed respectfully, and returned to the house.

The morning had worked up an agreeable sweat. It was pleasant to swiftly bathe again before resuming our clothes. Mariella went to the door. She had a brief conversation with somebody, then closed the door.

"Guard posted outside." she said. "Miriam doesn't want us going out."

I went to the window. Yes. Two guards, each patrolling with one of the fearsome "boerboel" mastiffs straining at a leash. These were no friendly Fidos.

"Miriam said we remain safe." Mariella said.

"We're still inside the seventy-two hours. I believe her." I replied.

"For now." Mariella said.

So we have spent time, in cool rooms in the heat of the day, getting our journals up to date. It is now approaching three.

* * *

Dear Johanna.

It is evening now and I believe we have a plan for getting Horst Lensen out of the slave compound and at least into a more congenial place. Well, more congenial only by relative comparison. But I will get onto this later.

Food was sent up shortly after midday for us, with a message from Miriam that she is dealing with a sudden visitor but will come to confer with us when her new guest leaves. We asked the servant who brought our lunch.

"A carpet arrived, esteemed offendis. From distant Al-Khali. A messenger from the court of the Prince."

We accepted this and weighed up an escape plan. The stables were round the side of the building. We could get up to the roof and down to the stables. But if the gates were closed, and mastiffs were loosed, how to escape with camels…

"Get over the wall, get to the town, steal two camels, run like Hell." said Rivka. We refined the details of this plan, then decided it would be a last resort thing. We might as well just write our journals and wait and see. At least we had weapons here and could bar the door. And from what we'd gathered, we did not think Miriam would betray us when only thirty or so hours of the sacred seventy-two had elapsed.

Then the short fat major-domo was bowing at the door, saying the Sultana had requested our presence. We discreetly checked our weapons and those useful items we had hidden in our clothing, in case we had to run and abandon our luggage. Then went forth.

Miriam was in her reception room, taking thoughtful draws on a hookah. She nodded to us and smiled.

"Be seated, I beg you." she said.

We sat. A discreet look round had assured us there were no visible guards.

"Well. You have been busy girls." she remarked, nodding down at a letter or two and a selection of newspapers. I recognised the top paper was in the Cenotian language.

"Klatch hasn't yet become all that relaxed concerning newspapers." She said. "The idea of a free press rather alarms the decision-makers in al-Khali. The common people getting ideas in their little heads, and all that. And a William de Worde emerging in this country. Unthinkable. But the world press does get to al-Khali and circulates among those who can be trusted with possibly subversive infidel notions. Now and again they get as far as me. So what do we have here. Fairly recent copies of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_. The _**Tel Ari Ha'aretz**_ , in Cenotian. The _**Tel Ari Post**_ , in Morporkian. And an oddity, the Pratoria newspaper, _**De Burgher**_. In Vondalaans and Morporkian. Evidently a compromise that helps your nation work." **(2)**

She smiled again.

"All carrying local variations on a syndicated article by one Suki van der Graaf. Who I understand is related to you, Mariella? In any case, Miss van der Graaf is now listed as one who cannot enter any part of Klatch, on pain of pain. I suspect this would not deter her one little bit if she thought there were a story. And such a story."

"Every so often a routine messenger arrives, stays briefly, then flies on. I am asked if anything has occurred in my desmesne that is of interest enough for Al-Khali to hear. I am reminded of the duty to my lord Seraph to be his eyes, ears and nose in this place. I then tell the messenger, when did you last hear of anything happening in this Offler-forsaken place that would interest Al-Khali? The messenger then concedes I have a good point, politely thanks me for the coffee, then respectfully asks if he may use the privy as he does not wish to be caught short at two thousand feet. Then he departs, to fly on to the next Emir, Sultan or Sultana. But today was different."

She held up a newspaper.

"Very clear iconographs, are they not? They clearly show two miscreants who have entered this country as spies, foreign agents, and saboteurs. I am given the infidel papers, which all crow over the discomfort of Klatch, and report on the strange case of the fire from heaven that consumed a military base and many thousands of dinars worth of hard-to-replace stores. Evidence points to these two infiltrators, one a red-haired pale-skinned person of distinctive appearance who speaks no Klatchian and who croaks, rather than talks, in the barbaric heathen accents of White Howondaland. The other who is dangerous because in appearance she can pass for one of us, speaks our language fluently, but who is in reality an agent of the infidel Cenotians, possibly of their Institute of the Protective Shield. Both are trained by the sinister Guild of Assassins in Ankh-Morpork, which while a pale infidel imitation of our Hashishim, is nevertheless dangerous and inimical to Klatch."

Miriam smiled.

"If I see or hear of their presence, I am to report without delay to Al-Khali. There is a reward of many thousands of dinars if they are caught alive, for the loving care of those in the city who question such people."

She held up a hand.

"Peace, my friends. This is a clash of loyalties and of interests for me, it is true. On the one hand, it is not in my best interests to seek to lie to or to deceive the Prince. There is a reward in golden dinars for your arrest. But I do not need the money. And news from here would take several days to reach Al-Khali, as, regrettably, I cannot travel further than five miles in any direction by carpet without breaking the terms of my confinement. So it must travel by land.

"On the other hand, I am a graduate of the Guild. The Guild has asked me to look after you and work for its interests. I am bound by that informal oath of loyalty too. I really do not want the Guild sending people after me. And there is the nagging concern that if I treat miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes with anything less than complete integrity, and her family get to hear of it, then I am, as demotic Morporkian puts it, both creamed and cheesed. Yours is not a clan to offend. Your sister taught me, and I sense that having her visit this house in her wrath is not an encounter I will safely come out of."

Just once, just once, I'd like somebody I meet on this journey to say they want to treat me right for another reason than "I don't want Johanna Smith-Rhodes coming round to complain over how I dealt with her little sister." This could get annoying. I'd quite like the reason to be "Treat her fairly because it's the right thing to do, and because Mariella Smith-Rhodes can get stroeppy when she's annoyed."

Miriam took another draw on the hookah.

"But I also need to report, substantially truthfully, to the Prince. This presents a conundrum. But I think it is all resolved by a rule that trumps both, the inviolable law of sacred hospitality. Which grants you seventy-two hours of complete safety as honoured guests in my household. I estimate thirty-two of those hours have passed. I will do this. On the first minute of the seventy-third hour, I will direct a report to the Prince alerting you that you have been in this town and advising him to direct his attention here. It will take perhaps three days to reach him by land, but this cannot be helped. Should you be in my desmesne at that time, I will direct my guards to search for and detain you, so as to demonstrate to Khufurah that Steps Have Been Taken. Which clears me. If by then you are on the way to the nearest border, and my guards, who cannot alas be everywhere, fail to locate you – well, I will have tried."

She smiled.

"At nine in the morning on Friday, when my household are at prayer in the Temple, you will find your camels fully laden with your luggage, plus many courtesy waterskins and adequate food. I advise you to make all speed. It is possible a trusted guide will be present to lead you to the border. You can trust him with your lives. By eleven I will find you gone and will begin a search. As my guards accept and respect you after this morning, it is possible they will not search too diligently. But I advise you not to linger. Now. I also have ideas concerning the wretched boy currently being held in the slave pen. My agents tell me, in his way, he is quite comely? I have a plan. You can claim the Guild fee, by the way. As I say, I am wealthy. And you are new to the profession and are building your reputations. I am pleased to assist."

Miriam explained her plan. It had a Klatchian deviousness to it and was impressive. It also avoided any sort of approach involving violence, stealthy entry, or liberating the fool by force.

And then we spent the afternoon and evening training with her guards. We were pleased to demonstrate the skills Miss Band and Mr Harvey-Smith taught us, concerning accurate use of a bow from a moving horse. We noticed each of the horses allocated to us had only one emergency waterskin tied to the saddle, by the way. Not good for an escape from a desert, should we have tried to make a break for it. **(3)** Besides, everybody had bows.

Another pleasant dinner, and then bed. And the next day we were to get Horst Lensen, prize bliksem and idiot, out of the slave compound. I reassured myself with the thought that he'd then be in a difficult place where he'd have to figure out the rest of it for himself with no help, and fell asleep. Before sleep, I heard Rivka mutter

"Damn, almost forgot."

She got out of bed.

"Hmm?"

"Got to make safe. You know. this afternoon wnen I thought we might have to run for it and abandon our kit. I rigged the more important saddlebags with incendiaries and Devices. you know, so they'd explode and catch fire if anyone tried to open them. You don't want to leave Guild kit behind for anyone to find."

I really would not want her taking up a contract on me. She's too good. I left her to defuse her bombs and fell asleep.

* * *

 **(1)** Happens, more by luck than judgement, in my tale _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_. A result of this was that Mariella asked for training in using spears and lances _properly_ , both on foot and on horseback. She felt she wouldn't be as lucky the second time. Besides, her Goblin name, bestowed after the fight, translated as something like " _Red of hair and spear_ ". When you get a name like this, you feel some things are expected of you.

 **(2)** All capital cities around the world have newsagents that somehow contrive to get fairly recent copies of newspapers from just about everywhere for sale to grateful expats. It helps if they have major airports nearby. Not just London, now I reflect on it: I can think of at least three in central Manchester where you can get daily papers from anything up to forty different countries. The world indeed gets smaller by the day. Jerusalem definitely has papers in both English and Hebrew. There may be one in Yiddish, too. Not sure how South African papers deal with there currently being eleven official languages (before 1994 there were only two, Englishg and Afrikaans). Must research.

 **(3)** there was a case in WW2 where an RAF pilot forced down over northern France expressed admiration for the ME109 fighter. His Luftwaffe captors, knowing he was a prisoner, and liking their captive, generously allowed him to take a 109 up for a flight. The RAF man wondered – very briefly – about bolting back to England. Then looked at the fuel gauge and realised the Germans weren't stupid: he only had about eight minutes fuel, enough for a few circuits and barely enough to get to the French coast. Besides, the guns were unarmed and several other German planes were politely escorting him. He landed, thanked his captors for the courtesy, and went into a Stalag Luft.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 **Degrees of slavery in the Arab world:** This concept is called _مخارجة_ (mukhārajah) (Lane: "And خَارَجَهُ He made an agreement with him, namely, his slave that he (the latter) should pay him a certain impost at the expiration of every month; the slave being left at liberty to work: in which case the slave is termed عَبْدٌ مُخَارِجٌ") in Islamic law. If slaves agree to that and they would like the money they earn to be counted toward their emancipation, then this has to be written in the form of a contract between the slave and the master. This is called _مكاتبة_ ( _mukātaba_ ) in Islamic jurisprudence which is only, by consensus, a recommendation,[93][ _page needed_ ] and accepting a request for a _mukātaba_ from slaves is thus not obligatory for masters.[94] Although the owner did not have to comply with it, was considered praiseworthy to do so[95]

 **Extract fro a reply to a PM Thank you! How is La Belle Province? Full of sacrés and tabernaks, no doubt... (strange coincidence that I put a "French-Canadian" in the current tale as a cameo, whose version of a carefully bespoke Vimes Run involves taking naughty people from hot countries and teaching them ice-skating in the Pork Futures Warehouse, with a side-dish of Psychopathic Violence on Ice With Big Sticks, ie ice-hockey). I'm wondering about giving Antoinette a tale of her own, possibly alongside some of the other cameo Assassins. It may involve a trip to the Hub, maybe with a couple of ill-assorted colleagues...**

 **Glad you like the new Tale! I'm getting as much of it out on screen as quickly as I can whilst the muse is still there. It does have a definite ending and at least one Brick Joke/twist in the tail. Using the _Complete Discworld Atlas_ as a _Rough Guide_ , together with my superimposed OC countries, I've got a few ideas roughly plotted out. At most three more chapters in Klatch and encounters with two other interesting people, then the backpacker girls move on. I've got the canonical nations of Ymitury and Laotan in my sights, followed by the Central Plains where both get honorary Red Indian names. Followed by a roughly plotted jungle adventure in S'Belinde or Urabewe which may involve nods to Stanley and Livingstone and lots of Darkest Africa clichés (wondering how to do a Discworld Tarzan suddenly confronted with a choice of potential Janes. There's also going to be the running gag of Rivka getting all the attention whilst Mariella is the unregarded homely best friend). **

**There may be a desperate chase in the jungle involving representatives of at least one Black Howondalandian nation who have recognised a Smith-Rhodes on their sacred soil and who want to hold past (mis) deeds by other members of her family against Mariella. Then they cross into what will be achingly familiar ground to Mariella but which is pretty much completely new to Rivka - a reversal of the initial set-up in Cenotia. More exploration of the Discworld "South Africa" then follows and the culmination may take place on the very tip of Cape Terror, the furthest Rimwards point of the continent. Where, trans-continental navigation over, new decisions have to be made...**


	12. buying a slave

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter twelve: The slave market**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern area may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka are, currently, the most honoured and esteemed guests of a Sultana. Who is giving full and generous assistance in the completion of a guild contract which needs careful thought and planning.**_

 _ **With a nod to Humon. I was alarmed by her "Lady of the House" series. That helped inspire the character of Miriam as she appears here. A very exacting Lady of the House to**_ **her** _ **male servants.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _In the Hidden Palace of Many Surprises, En-al-Sams-la-Raisa, Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

We woke on the Thursday to what would be our last full day as guests of the Sultana. Who I have to confirm did deal fairly and with integrity to us both. If the Guild could note this officially, it would be a "thank you" to her.

The morning was spent in pleasant exertion, with more weapons training and pleasant equestrian activities. My assessment of Miriam's female guard is that they are good competent soldiers led by a capable officer. In the standard Guild scale, they would not count as "élite infantry" but perhaps as Superior troops with Above-Average leadership, High Morale and Good Unit Cohesion. (A certain Mixed Infantry component applies, as four of the soldiers are relatively recent recruits and require training and experience to bring them up to the same high common standard. **(1)** ) On horse or camelback, they would class as Irregular Cavalry (plus two). Rivka and I were pleased to pass on some of our knowledge as a courteous gesture of thanks to our hostess.

The weakness of the set-up here, at present, is that the length of wall surrounding her home is such that it could not be adequately defended by thirteen soldiers. The formidable wall could therefore be breached by a concerted attack focused on one point. While the boerboel guard mastiffs, of which there are currently five, are formidable creatures, the tactics used against wild boars, lions, rhinoceri and Aggressive Rabbits – namely long spears applied with vigour and resolution, or heavy hunting bows – would be telling. The standard approach technique of seeding the ground with poisoned or doped meat would of course also be effective, as very few dogs can resist picking up a tasty unexpected snack.

I estimate Miriam would need at least four times the current number of fully trained warriors to adequately defend the perimeter walls. She is aware of this weakness, and is actively recruiting further guards.

Her household staff, numbering perhaps twenty resident and others who come in daily from the village, could be hastily armed with basic weapons to defend the walls, but they would only at best class as Irregular Peasant Levées, of doubtful combat value. Her male "servants" are impressively muscled young men in peak physical condition, but I suspect they are selected for other services, and would in the normal course of events be discouraged from weapon-handling. I also believe that they are temperamentally unsuited for fighting, and are schooled in habits of passivity and submission for their routine employment. This of course makes them of dubious combat value. At any one time there are seven or eight such young men in the premises.

A sketch map of the house, grounds, walls and approach routes from the town and oasis is appended for the relevant Guild file.

The walls are perhaps twenty feet high, spiked and machicolated, with a perimeter dry moat some six feet deep of the classic "ho-ho" type **(2)** , with spiked abbatis and other deterrent fittings within. The walls themselves appear to be perhaps eight feet thick, of brick and packed earth construction, with a five-foot-wide parapet running round the inside. There are no towers, but an examination of the ground suggests the potential to build at least one tower has been noted and the ground at the Hubwards by Turnwise corner is cleared and has been marked with pegs, suggesting that as finances and opportunity allow, further building work may commence. The ground to a distance of fifty yards on all sides is cleared, offering archers on the walls full visibility and a good field of fire. I believe the Sultana is applying the standard teachings of Domestic Defence, with the limitation that most forms of Defensive Gardening as taught by Doctor Bellamy are inapplicable in a desert setting. I would not, however, scorn the cacti and other plants she is growing in the gardens. I suspect some are being nurtured with an intent to transplant them to strategic points on the approaches to the house. Descriptions are attached for their provisional identification by Doctor Bellamy. (taking iconographs might be seen as suspicious and impolite; the iconograph machine we "liberated" in Cenotia is packed in our baggage. We feed the imp regularly and assure him he is not forgotten. Johanna, self-focused iconographs of ourselves are enclosed. There **must** be a shorter phrase than "self-focused iconograph" **(3)** We are wearing, as you will see, the borrowed clothing and weapons typical of Sultana Miriam's personal guard, which may be of Guild interest. We may broach the subject of a souvenir iconograph of ourselves and our hostess, if she is agreeable.)

We had a practice tourney in a skill called "Sticking of Pig", which is of course something Mr Harvey-Smith teaches to advanced equestrians. I believe I came out very creditably and both Miriam and Captain Sofiya suggested we should go out and find a real pig to stick.

Of course, it is a contest of riding skill and dexterity with the lance involving collecting **pegs** , driven into the ground, on the end of your lance. "Pig-sticking" is perhaps a misleading misprint and truly unfortunate for any pigs nearby. I am fairly competent at this: it is a natural application of my riding skills and my training in spears and lances. This became very relevant when eventually we were guided into the desert on our way to the border, as I will relate later. The applause and approval of our hosts was most gratifying. Miriam insisted on gifting me an especially fine lance in recognition of my ability. Although it is long and cumbersome, I have it still: it would have been impolite to refuse. If I can bring it back with me, would it add to the weapons walls at Spa Lane?

There was, fortunately, no time to find a real animal to hunt. After lunch, we had an idiot to rescue. With Horst Lensen, I feared we were going to be stuck with a pig. One I could not, alas, run through with a lance, whatever the provocation. (Clause (5) excepted).

We shall now relate how we completed the Guild request. Please look upon the following account as a formal contract completion report for the Dark Council and the Awards Review Committee. I apologise for not having any of the CC1 and CC1(a) or CC1(b-c) official forms available. On setting out, we really did not think we'd need any. The substance of the form has been recreated as best we can from memory.

 **Contract Details And Specified Subclauses:**

1\. To assist the Guild student Horst Caspar de Vries Lensen (Viper House), on the Extended Year of his Final Run to ascertain his suitability to graduate as a Licenced Assassin. He is to be assisted in breaking out of his current captivity as a slave currently held in detention on En-al-Sams-la-Raisa in Hubwards Klatch.

2\. To retrieve all clothing, equipment and Assassins' Guild property captured with him, which is currently in the keeping of the slave master. It is held to be of very high priority that none of this material falls into the hands of unauthorised persons outside the Guild.

3\. To do so in such a way as to avert unfortunate consequences to the Guild, such as public approbrium in that we allowed a student, to whom the Guild has some duty of care, to be forced into the unedifying condition known as slavery. To forestall any public complaint or censure from external agencies, such as the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ , or diplomatic incidents involving protest from the Embassy or Government of the Republic of Rimwards Howondaland. (Ambassador van der Graaf is believed, even now, to be preparing a formal complaint to both the Klatchians and to the Guild for our perceived negligience concerning a _**white**_ citizen of that country). Consequent censure and sardonic comment from the Patrician is also a possibility.

4\. It is imperative that any attempted rescue involves a degree of input from Mr Lensen himself. He is still a student undergoing his Final Examination. After consultation with the Exam Procedures Committee, the named operatives are reminded that they also occupy the de facto status of examiners and are to prepare a full and detailed assessment of Mr Lensen's contribution to his own rescue, which will be taken account of when determining whether he is worthy of the Pink Slip. Mr Lensen is also to continue at the earliest practicable moment – if he can - his own journey across the Continent to the agreed and time-sensitive rendezvous at the Guild bureau in Pratoria, Rimwards Howondaland. The named operatives are advised, should they then encounter him at any subsequent point on their own journey across the continent, that routine assistance may be offered out of common courtesy and fellow feeling. This must not cross the line into improper coaching, or solving his problems for him.

5\. The named operatives are reminded that they now have the _de facto_ status of Final Examination Invigilators. Should rescue of the individual called Horst Caspar de Vries Lensen (Viper House) be impossible, impractical or any attempt thereof be prejudicial to their lives, they are empowered on the authority of the Guild Master, seconded by the Deputy Guild Mistress, to award a Fail Grade by means of the Misericordia. It is stressed that this is an absolute last resort and a full report will be expected.

 _ **Named Operatives:**_

 _ **Miss Rivka Naomi Leilani ben-Devorah, Licenced and Articled Assassin (Black Widow House)**_

 _ **Miss Mariella Elisabet Smith-Rhodes, Licenced and Articled Assassin (Black Widow House)**_

On validated completion of the Contract, submission of satisfactory reports, and approval from the Dark Council, the named operatives will each receive a post-Guild Tax honorarium of AM$3,000.

It is recorded that both named Operatives have accepted the Contract and are now bound to attempting its completion.

 _ **Special condition:**_

The named operatives may seek assistance and guidance from a locally based Guild member, the Sultana and Begum Miriam bint-Alhazred, Licenced and Articled Assassin (Tump House). It is understood that she has waived a contract fee and is assisting pro _bono_ out of _noblesse oblige_ , Guild loyalties, and the fact "it breaks the bloody monotony".

 **Joint report by the Named Operatives containing input from both;-**

We set out to the town of El-Sams-de-la-Raisa at eleven-thirty on the Thursday morning. We were dressed as members of the personal guard of the Sultana and Begum Miriam bint-Alhazred, so as not to unduly draw attention to ourselves. As a coded advisory to Mr Lensen, and also to respect the Guild dress code for operatives on a mission, we wore black waist sashes and black decorative streamers in our facial and head coverings.

Two more of the Sultana's personal guard accompanied us bearing a small locked chest, the contents of which were essential to the mission.

Our perceived role was as escort to the Sultana, who accompanied us as is the right of the Sultana of the town and immediate fiefdom. As a widow in mourning for her late husband and his elder wives, it was socially correct for her to be dressed all in black. The fact this is also appropriate for Guild members on a mission was complete coincidence and would have passed unremarked. The presence of the Sultana and an armed retinue also meant we could pass the crowded streets with ease as all others receded from her presence to allow her right of way.

At the slave enclosure towards the far end of the souk, she bade us halt so she could assess the worth and value of the human cargo incarcerated within. We counted twenty-three sorry souls, both male and female, jumbled together with no regard for segregating the sexes. The majority appeared to be of Black Howondalandian ethnicity with a goodly proportion of swarthy tribespeople, probably of related stock to the Klatchians. But the Sultana observed that one stood out. She made it clear by her attention to him that this was of interest to her.

It was not long before the slave-manager appeared. He was a large man in his fifties, of powerful appearance running to fat, with coarse features and a shaven head. He was assessed by us to be the sort who would be a bully to employees, a tyrant to slaves, but obsequious and subservient to his social superiors. The discourse between them is reproduced from memory.

"How may I be of assistance to thee, most gracious and exalted Lady?"

"This one is of interest to me." she said, indicating Lensen. Our man of interest was sitting listlessly and dejectedly in a corner of the pen. The sultana, by the way, was speaking in Morporkian, effectively and appropriately the "lingua morporkica" of the region, a common language bringing together the many disparate groups and dialects of the region.

"He is of different appearance to the rest. How did you come to acquire such an exotic?"

"We surprised him as he slept, gracious lady." the slavedealer said. "He was weary and exhausted and easy to take. He was stripped, chained and his possessions taken from him."

"He interests me. Bring him out onto the block so I may examine him."

The slavedealer was reluctant.

"I must advise, esteemed and gracious lady, that circumstances of his acquisition may interest highly placed people in Al-Khali who will be prepared to pay a premium for him…"

"Bring him out, Ali-Rashid." The Sultana said, imperiously. "I was a highly placed person in Al-Khali, and will be again when my purdah is over. It occurs to me that highly placed friends could be useful to you."

She stared into his face.

"Or they could be a hindrance. You decide. Bring him out!"

The slavedriver crumbled and gave orders to his henchmen. Then he looked at us and smiled recognition.

"I see the two young… _gentlemen._ Who I spoke to, two days hence. The Lady has evidently taken you into her service, as I suspected she would."

"They brought me news of an interesting specimen in your care." the Sultana said. "As loyal servants in my Guard should. I thank them for their astute observations. This one is truly interesting!"

Horst Lenson was pushed out, prodded forward with the butt of a whip, and made the stand on an inspection block. The only clothing he had been permitted was a coarse loincloth and crude sandals. At some point his blonde skin had habituated to the hard sun and had begun tanning. But it must have been torment at first.

"He was allowed a _khaffiya_ to wear on the march, great Sultana." the slave-driver said. "Not for kindness, but because he commands a price and I did not want that price lowered by his pale hide being seared by the sun."

So I perceive." she said.

"But I regret I cannot sell him here. He commands a high price. In Al-Khali. Not, with regret, here."

She turned to a senior member of her guard who was helping to carry the chest on a litter. It was, in fact, Captain Sofiya.

"Sofiya, how much might such a one command in Al-Khali, do you think?"

Her captain grinned.

"A white-skinned infidel in good health with the exotic pale hair? I would say ten thousand golden dinars, My Lady. Though I counsel you to examine him first."

Miriam's inspection of the goods was close, detailed and very attentive. At one point she deliberately stuck a hand down into the front of the loincloth. Lensen jumped and yelped. She leant in and whispered something in his ear. She did not withdraw the hand.

"My lady?" said the slavedealer.

She smiled.

"I was advising the fool to hold still." she said. "And that at least he is not being caressed by the whip. Though I'm sure that can be arranged."

(She told us later that she'd slipped a set of lockpicks into his loincloth on only the partial pretence of ensuring the sale item was completely fit for purpose in all possible respects. This satisfies, or partially satisfies, the Guild condition: Lensen now has a set of covert lockpicks available with which he can demonstrate his training, at some future point. I will report he was also aware of us and recognised us both, and that this time he was not stupid enough to shout it out loud. Indeed, he seemed to recognise the significance of this. He may also have recognised Miriam, who would have been a senior pupil to him too.)

"I think I will buy him." She said. "A new pretty boy would be nice. Especially an exotic."

She turned to the slavedealer.

"Six and a half thousand, immediately, in gold."

She indicated the chest with a languid wave of her hand.

"I am sure my dear departed husband will not deny my spending the money I inherited from him on things to give me solace in my widowhood." she said.

The slavedealer was visibly agitated by now.

"But, exalted lady! Al-Khali! The Prince himself! I must display him to the Prince! There are reasons why the Great lord and Seraph would want him! He is an Assassin, lady, from Ankh-Morpork! One of the stealthy dangerous infidel ones, there is no telling when they will strike nor in what guise!"

The sultana glared imperiously. She reached inside her respectable widow's weeds and pulled out something that flashed, red-gold, in the sun. Deliberately, she stepped up to the slavedealer and held it to his face. He flinched in fear.

"Hear me, Ali-Rashid. I have no fear of the Assassins of Ankh-Morpork. Do you not recognise the flame dagger? This is the mark of the Hashishim of Mount Inhalat. One marked for attention by them will see the flame dagger once and live, as a warning of what happens to those who incur the attention of the Brotherhood. You are now looking upon a flame dagger for the first time. Do not ask what happens on the second time. Now I repeat. I am buying this slave. I am also the eyes and ears of Prince Khufurah in this place. I will report to my Prince. If he so wills it, I will send him this slave. I will lose the slave-price, naturally, but I look upon that, in the eventuality, as renting this interesting one for a season. He will interest me."

She smiled and the flame dagger returned to its sheath.

"My opening bid is six and a half thousand."

They eventually agreed on eight and a half. Chains and shackles were produced.

"I will have these returned to you." Miriam said, as Lensen was chained for transit. "They are only loaned to facilitate secure transit of the slave." She indicated us.

"New soldiers of my guard. You are tasked with conducting my new slave. Be as ungentle as you wish, save that you do not mark his skin further."

We took the chains. Both of us gave them a meaningful jerk, just to maintain the pretence.

"One last thing, Ali-Rashid. This Assassin's equipment and clothing. That, I think, is also mine to guard in case the Seraph calls for it. Or indeed, if the brotherhood of Mount Inhalat wishes to question this Ankh-Morpork Assassin as to his presence in our lands. Provide it."

We were detailed to carry his clothing and pack. The clothing did not smell nice, by the way.

Then we returned to the Perfumed Window Box of Delights (so named because it was formerly a lesser house of the Emir who owned various places. The Perfumed Garden of Delights was a name already taken by a larger place. Apparently he also owned the Perfumed Allotment of Delights Down By The Canal.)

We are aware that so far, this report reads as if we have failed and Horst Lensen has simply exchanged one form of slavery and one owner for another. But this is not the whole story. Bear with us.

* * *

And I return to my less formal account, Johanna.

Previously, the three of us had discussed the fine details of our plan.

It had not occurred to us to simply _buy_ Horst Lensen and then release him. The idea was simple, elegant and solved problems, such as an irate slave-dealer setting the local law on us following a break-in and theft of his property. There was also the consideration that this breaches demarcation agreements with the Guild of Thieves.

Rivka, ever practical, had suggested releasing _all_ the slaves and getting them to run for freedom, thus complicating things for those who would be following us. In the confusion, we took Lensen and disappeared.

But Miriam had smiled and put forward a convoluted, but elegant, proposal. She remembered Horst as an opinionated and irksome youth of thirteen. Who had somewhat annoyed her and other Klatchians one day. I agreed Horst had a knack for annoying people.

"But even at thirteen, he had promise. An attractive blonde youth who, if you looked at him with the right eye, might well grow up to be more than potentially attractive at eighteen."

We both agreed this was so, damn him. A youth who could sway susceptible women who couldn't see behind the swaggering outgoing good looks and discern what a complete arseshole he is.

"I am interested."

She debated with Sofiya as to what a slave of this promise might sell for.

Then she said

"What's the current exchange rate of the Klatchian dinar to the Ankh-Morporkian dollar?"

"one dinar buys forty-seven Ankh-Morporkian pennies." Rivka said, promptly.

"So if I budget nine thousand dinars, which is…"

"Four thousand two hundred and thirty Ankh-Morpork dollars." Rivka said, very quickly. Miriam looked at her and smiled.

"You know, you are really not helping to dispel cultural stereotypes concerning Cenotians." she observed.

Rivka shrugged.

"Hey, you've got to be careful with money." she said. "We're renowned for it."

Eventually he went for eight and a half thousand dinars. Or AM$3,995. It sounded like a Dibbler price: "Sold to the discermimg lady with the red hair for $3,995! And that's cutting me own throat!"

My throat. For it was really **me** paying the $3,995. I took a deep breath and paid the cheque to Miriam. She accepted it with profound thanks and a bow, and gave me copies of the two other forms to read and sign.

One was a receipt, acknowledging the slave Horst Lensen, hitherto to be known by the assigned slave name of "Most Cute And Pretty Blonde Boy", to be the property of Miss M.E. Smith-Rhodes, made out in both Klatchian and Morporkian. Rivka confirmed the Klatchian was an accurate translation.

The second was a formal contract confirming that he was loaned, with my express personal agreement, to the care of the Sultana Miriam bint-Alhazred, for an indefinite period, and that he could at any time at the request of his owner, miss M.E. Smith-Rhodes, be returned to or else manumitted by her. Or sold on, at her instruction.

For Miriam's price for assisting wasn't a share of the contract fee. She wanted to add him to her house-slaves and pleasure boys for a month or so, until she got tired of him, which given his delightful and congenial character was likely to be soon.

"In perhaps four or five weeks, after his strength recovers and he has had time to rest,he will discover the door to the slave quarters to be unlocked. A fully laden camel will most unaccountably have been left in the yard and the gates unlocked. Even more of a shocking lapse in security will mean the night guard is inattentive and the dogs were not released from their kennels. The most cute pretty blonde boy will also know where his Assassin equipment is stored in an unlocked and insecure place."

She sighed.

"These things happen. Insh'Offler. And thus he fulfils his obligation to contrive his own escape, and the Guild is satisfied. And I get to try out a new house-slave for a few weeks."

Rivka reminded me later that my fee for the contract had been wiped out and then some.

"No, it hasn't." I said. "Lensen bloody well owes me four thousand. I will make it my business to get that out of him."

"And you've paid for him to have an interesting time as sexual plaything of a louche Sultana." she said. "Oi vey."

I do not grind my teeth, Johanna. Much.

* * *

And on our return to the house, with our new purchase from the shopping trip. Horst had begun to babble thanks, but was cut short by his new mistress.

Miriam had imperiously dismissed him with

"Take him away. Bathe and cleanse and groom him. Instruct my new boy in his duties. Bring him back when he is bathed and smells less objectionably. I may wish him to attend me later."

Horst had looked incredulously at me. It was, I think, beginning to dawn on him that he wasn't going to just walk out a free man. at least, not that easily. Rivka spluttered with amusement.

"You're still a slave, bliksem." I said. I was not in a good mood. "Officially you belong to **me** and you're only on loan. And I tell you this. You owe me four thousand! Now get out of my sight and don't bloody answer me back, or I'll have you whipped. With a bloody sjaemboek!"

He got it. andremained silent. He is Rimwards Howondalandian and knows one of the generally accepted uses of the sjaembok whip. And is vocally in favour of its use as a corrective on black people.

And that is our report for the Guild, Johanna.

More later on our adventures since leaving Miriam, and concerning our most singular guide.

* * *

Killer Rabbit, not of Caer Bannog…

 **(1)** By some morphic resonance or just narrative coincidence, Mariella is quoting the accepted categories for grading pre-firearms era soldiers in the " _ **Fields of Glory**_ " tabletop wargaming rules, which cover the Ancient/Mediaeval era.

 **(2)** colloquially, "laugh this off".

 **(3)** Rivka tentatively suggested an " _autofoc_ " as a neologism. But this might be misinterpreted.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 **Al-Miraj**

The Al-Miraj is from Islamic poetry. It's said to be a yellow rabbit with a long black spiraling horn on it's forehead. From a distance it looks peaceful, but if you walk up to it, it will attack. It can kill with just a few stabs of it's horn, and can even eat creatures much lager than itself. The only thing that can calm an Al-Miraj down enough to kill it is a witch. _(from the text to an illustration in Humon Comics. Her mis-spellings.)_

Killer Rabbit, not of Caer Bannog…


	13. Behind My Camel

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter thirteen: Tea in the Sahara (1) or even Behind My Camel. With a Policeman. Stung?**_

 _ **A shorter chapter. I'm currently thinking out what sort of letters form Ankh-Morpork would have reached the girls via Olga and what they might reasonably say.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general African region may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka have with reluctance (and possibly ninety minutes to spare) left the hospitality and luxury offered by the most honoured and esteemed Sultana. A contract completed, they have shouldered their rucksacks and are moving on and heading for a border, which once crossed puts them outside Klatchian jurisdiction and a bit nearer Hubwards and their destination. They make a new acquaintance and are reminded of a specific variation on the Seventy-Two-Hour rule of Sacred Hospitality.**_

 _ **With a nod to Humon. Who has done some pretty interesting not-Scandinavia -And-The-World stuff.**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

I am writing in the relative cool of the late afternoon, before we strike camp and travel by evening and night, as this is much cooler and moonlight offers adequate light – and stars – to navigate by.

At present we are in the silence and stillness of the true desert. Our camp is underneath a shaded awning on the shadow side of a sand-dune, although "in the shade" is a relative term here. As a zoologist, you would probably question the assertion that nothing lives or moves here except three human travellers and a small herd numbering five camels (two of whom carry nothing but waterskins. This is vitally necessary). There is life here. Things come out from self-burial in the deeper and cooler sand layers, at night. This is not noticeable by day, but in the cool of the night you are aware of rodents, insects, arachnids, lizards, and all manner of fauna you would swear the desert could not possibly sustain. I think you would like it here for that reason. Especially since some of the wildlife is distinctly inimical and puts up a fight.

Sand gets everywhere. I am missing the taste of luxury and the ample baths we enjoyed at Miriam's. I find it difficult to believe I can get all the sand out which has worked its way into some most inconvenient and hard-to-access places. But our guide assures us you get used to it. He also assures us that he is reasonably sure there will not be a sandstorm. I hope so. This is apparently not sandstorm season. Ah, will I ever have a bath again?

We left En-el-Sams-la-Raisa on the Friday morning. Miriam and most of her household went to the religious service at the local temple, and we said our farewells in advance. She was, I thought, genuinely sorry to see us go. A token guard was left on the building, as was the wretched boy Lensen. He seemed put out we were not taking him with us.

I took the opportunity to point out in no uncertain terms that we had done him a favour. If he kept his eyes and ears open, there might be an opportunity to escape, (I did not go into any specific detail. It is now for him to work out) which was more possible and certain from here than from anywhere the fat and disgusting slave-driver would have kept him. If he really wanted to attempt escape from a march, in chains, from the middle of a desert, we could give him back to Ali Raschid. But here he was going to be well treated, well nourished, and allowed space and time to recuperate and get his strength back. I advised him to keep his eyes and ears open and be attentive. And not to annoy the Lady Miriam too much. Graduate of Tump House or not, here she was an imperious Sultana in her own country. With access to whips and other corrective remedies.

"And another thing, Horst. My friend Mariella paid to get you out. You now owe her. Four thousand dollars. And she was overcharged. You have heard of Scary Maries? Well, if you get through this continent and you try to evade repaying Mariella her four thousand dollars, I will pursue you as far as it takes, for as long as it takes, and I will find you. And you will find out that of all the Scary Maries you ever met or even heard of, **I am the scariest**. I will be the Scary Mary who haunts your nightmares. My people have something called a Yenta who never lets up in her pursuit. You will discover I am the Yenta of Scary Maries."

I am satisfied that he got the point. By the way, he had been bathed and groomed and was now dressed in the minimal attire of Miriam's special house slaves. Damn the man, he **is** a good-looking male, in a coarse way. I suspect his special training will begin soon. The major-domo saw us and led him away, berating him for disturbing the peace of an esteemed friend of the Sultana, and berating him with the flat of his hand. The cracks of the slaps on bare skin resounded in a satisfying way.

Mariella joined me and we set about loading our camels. We had been loaned a third camel, which was laden largely with filled waterskins and some food rations. We were assured it would be returned.

Then we noted a strange thing. A slightly ragged individual was squatting silently in the shadows by the gate. He was a small stocky individual, and the seemingly absurd thing was the overly large sword he wore strapped to his back. Then we reflected, much at the same time, that nobody in this place would carry a sword they did not know how to use.

He stood, seemingly aware we had noticed his presence, and as he stepped out of the shade, it was obvious that most of his exposed skin was composed of old scar tissue. Old scar tissue, indicating he had survived a lot of fights.

He sala'amed respectfully to us.

"Greetings, offendi ladies! The most esteemed lady Sultana Miriam, who is an old and a trusted acquaintance, sent word and asked that I be your guide over the desert. She is concerned that even such capable ladies as you might go astray and die, without a good guide."

He grinned, with a flash of gold teeth.

"And you present me a difficulty. I have heard, through mere souk gossip, admittedly, that two ladies, one red of hair as though she were from _Candwa al-sher Alahmir_ , and one a Cenotian spy, have entered his domains illegally and with evil intent, and that the Prince is keen to have them detained."

He shook his head and sighed.

"As the appointed _wali_ of the Prince, one who enforces the Law which is one and the same as the Seraph's will, I am therefore bound to that will, and must seek to arrest such people as have aroused his displeasure."

He smiled at us again with a renewed flash of gold. None of us went for weapons. I think this is called a Klatchian Stand-off.

"But my lady Miriam is from Tump House and was a pupil of the renowned Miss Alice Band. The two ladies the Prince seeks are of Black Widow House, tutored by the most respected and worthy of honour Madame Emmanuelle. I have met her. She is not a woman to slight **.(2)** And woe unto me, women and girls at the Guild came after my time in Viper House. Floreat School and all that!"

There was more flashing gold.

Realisation was dawning.

The swarthy Klatchian spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

"What is a poor _wali_ to do when faced with conflicting loyalties? Woe is me!" he declared, theatrically.

There was a long silence.

"But I think. If I meet two travellers in the inhospitable desert, extend the compassion of the most merciful and the most forgiving Offler to them and offer, as a deeper Law dictates, to escort them to within sight of the border with Ymitury, that obligation transcends all. And for seventy-one hours, they are as daughters to me and I am sworn to defend and protect and to do right by them. And if then I ride back to an outpost, where the written will of the Seraph awaits me, with his official seal so I can be in no doubt it came from the Prince, describing such people and ordering me to find and detain them… well, then, I received the directive too late. I may ride back and seek them. But if they have by then passed into the neighbouring nation from which we have no extradition treaty, then it is clearly the will of Offler."

He paused.

"Mariella Smit'-Hrodes. Rivka ben-Devorah. It seems Offler has spoken and I am to be your guide and protector for seventy-one hours. I swear I will lead you truly."

Mariella took a deep breath.

"I'm not going to ask if you really meant seventy-two hours." she said. "Because I heard about you at the Guild School."

Seventy-One Hours Ahmed bowed.

"Be fair." he said, in a Morporkian accent. "If I made it seventy-two hours and people got to hear about it. They'd think I was getting soft. I have a reputation to maintain."

And so we rode into the desert with Seventy-One Hours Ahmed and five camels and a lot of waterskins.

* * *

Dear Johanna.

We are now two days into the Desert. The ride has been monotonous and has involved a lot of sand-dunes. We have learnt that you do not ride over the top of a dune even if it is the shortest apparent route. They get more unstable the higher you go and too much energy is expended. And higher up, they are unstable and prone to collapse. You do not want to be caught in a collapsing sand-dune. Therefore you follow a contour around them. This leads to a lot of tacking and zig-zagging. But Seventy-One Hours Ahmed is a veteran of these deserts and knows them intimately. We are learning much about desert survival.

A range of mountains is appearing in the distance. These are apparently The Mountains of the Moon and other nations, which are not Klatch, lie on the other side. The border is largely unguarded as Klatch has no issues with these neighbours. Ahmed has warned us, however, that the Klatchian Foreign Legion has several outposts here and sends out patrols, when it remembers. They may have been officially notified about us. We will seek to avoid them.

I discovered Miriam packed a gift for Bekki and Famke, which is thoughtful, and has asked to be kindly remembered to you. She says the jewellery is formerly that of her deceased sisters-in-marriage and she has no need for it, it was only cluttering up the house. She thinks it can go into the trousseaux for your daughters as something they can take into marriage with them when the time is right. I have only looked briefly at it, but I would suggest you get it valued as – wow. She encloses a personal letter for you. I will forward this unopened.

This desert is making me think mathematically. A voice in my head is repeating the axioms of geometry of the old Ephebians. I am fighting a desire to do quadratic equations in my head. Rivka says she is feeling a similar compulsion to perform calculations in Base Twelve mathematics. Perhaps this is inevitable when the only thing moving which is of interest is the backside of the camel in front. Your mind has to occupy itself with something. But those mountains are getting closer all the time. Ahmed says there are some watercourses, but they drain on the Ymiturian and Laotoan side. They get the water, Klatch gets a desert. Insh'Offler. I need a wash. At least. Sand is getting into some strange and uncomfortable places, despite the desert clothing. I feel I am being sandblasted in places I would only trust Matron Igorina to look at. She once spoke about something called Sandfly Fever **,(3)** but only to senior girls who could appreciate the humour, and speculated as to that being the reason why male circumcision is universal in desert nations. She then said that she could sew one back on again, if needed. This evokes unpleasant mental images concerning exactly what she keeps in those jars down in her cellar. Unfortunately they are hard to dispel, given the nature of desert travel. I prefer to think about mathematics. Mr Mycroft would be proud. I am coming to believe I am getting the female version of Sandfly Fever. I did not think this was possible.

I will write more at the next rest halt.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

A pleasant surprise. Olga Romanoff has found us and will take back our completed despatches, reports for the Guild, and the gift for Famke and Bekki which Miriam generously provided. I think she misses Ankh-Morpork and would like to return there when her house arrest ends, if only to catch up on old acquaintances. She also, I suspect, has a wistful longing for what might be called normal interaction with an ordinary family, if yours could be called that. She dealt fairly with us and I would like to see the "Ankh-Morporkian" side of her, rather than the imperious and capricious Sultana.

Well, Ahmed and Mariella are preparing what looks to be a most delicious and unexpected dinner, of kebabbed rabbit meat and the inevitable couscous with hummous and flatbread. As the desert night draws in, a warm dinner with tea – not Klatchian coffee, as we intend to sleep – is a luxury to anticipate.

The fresh rabbit is being cooked over dried camel dung, aslas, but it is plentiful, dries quickly, and burns with a fierce heat. It may not count as kosher on two counts – rabbit cooked over camel dung – but frankly I'm too hungry to care and the great G-d can be beseeched to forgive me later. I will have a full stomach and forgiveness is then His problem.

Rabbits in a desert? I will tell more later. Olga has been prevailed upon to take a freshly-killed specimen directly to you, as I believe they are a species unknown to you and would merit study and preservation at the Zoo. The University's wizard-taxidermists moved there, I understand? The ones with long experience at creating stuffed alligators as the indispensable accessory for old-time wizards? And if all else fails, the corpse is stable in the evening chill and will reach you in a not-disgusting state where it may be possible for you to do a scientific study of the meat. Ahmed assures us it is palatable and judging by the smell, I believe him.

We were breaking camp in the afternoon, ahead of the evening cold where movement and progress is easier and keeps us warm in the desert night. We had slept as well as possible in the heat of the day.

We saw the Pegasus circling in the air. It must have appeared from Feegle-Space as no Klatchian carpets were rising to challenge it. It circled lower and saw us, then came down. The pilot had evidently been briefed.

Any shadowing Klatchian would have seen the Pegasus merely landing near a small desert caravan, and under the law of hospitality to fellow travellers in the desert, seeking water for herself and her mount, and being politely offered food.

Mail from the City was passed quickly to us, and as we were inviting Olga to stay a while, the camels brayed with alarm. Then they attacked.

Ahmed shouted to us to arm ourselves, quickly, as they were the accursed _**al-miraj**_!

At first we saw only rabbits. Just rabbits. Then realised they had unicorn-horns in their foreheads and sharp teeth. And they attacked aggressively. They jump high and seek to stab.

As we fought with swords, Ahmed said this was very bad indeed, as legend has it that only a witch may slay them. Olga grinned and said "Oh dear for them, then."

Two of us with swords chopped them out of the air. Olga used fireballs. Her flight-Feegle, mr Wee Mad Arthur, took the fight to them on a very personal one-to-one basis. And Mariella, with the lance gifted to her, gave us the idea for kebabs. She is good with a lance. And both an iron-shod Pegasus and five camels, stamping with precision, have solid hooves and lots of muscle behind them. Camels also _bite_. With mathematical precision.

"Take a faceful of heid, bunny-rabbit that ye are!"

"They're going off like exothermic alchemy devices, aren't they?"

"those rabbits are... _explosive_!"

Eventually the survivors of the pack attack had taken enough and sped off, defeated. Ahmed breathed out and said these may be creatures originally of the foul djinns, the ones you call elves. He touched the metal of his blade. Olga said we should make sure, then, and stabbed each corpse through the heart with a silver hairpin. The ones killed with fire we felt needed no further attention. This perhaps explains the Klatchian folk-legend that only a witch may kill the al-miraj, the unicorn rabbit. She has left the silver pin through the heart of the body we are sending back for your zoological interest, by the way. Best to be certain. The rest are going to the sort of place where no (possible) Undead has ever returned. Apparently, in Witch-lore, there is observational proof concerning a tomcat and a vampire in bat form.

Thank you for the mail. When we have finished our tea in the Sahara (apparently this is a very old word for an inhospitable dangerous desert) we will read it. It is a distraction better than being stuck for long hours behind that camel in front. **(4)** And now, I think, rabbit and couscous is ready.

* * *

 **(1)** OK, so the Sahara doesn't exist as such on the Discworld. But the Police did a song of this title and it's too good to miss. Come to think of it they also did a memorable instrumental called _**Behind My Camel**_. An even better title?

 **(2** ) OK. Go to my Hogswatch tale _il se passait au Nuit de Pere Porcher._

 **(3)** A debilitating minor ailment of British soldiers of the Eighth Army in WW2, who fought, wearing shorts, in the Egyptian and Libyan deserts. Britain is not, in the main, a society that circumcises its infant males. American soldiers in the desert, coming from a culture where circumcision is more widespread for medical reasons, suffered less from the abrasive action of sand trapped in an unfortunate place underneath a mobile skin layer.

 **(4** ) I admit it. Shoe-horning in references to both Police tracks. And there's a Policeman, of sorts.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 ** _Klipdrift_ (Gold in Every Drop)**

 **A brand name of South African Brandy. Largely due to the efforts of visual comedian Casper de Vries, it has much the same status in SA as Buckfast Tonic Wine or McEwan's Special does in Billy Connolly's Scotland – ie, lunatic soup of preference, for alcoholics to get hammered on.**

 **There is something so wonderfully Jimkin Bearhammer about that sales line "Gold In Every Drop". Got to use this somewhere.**


	14. Mainly loose ends

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter fourteen: On Another Border.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general African region may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka say farewell to Seventy-One Ahmed. They encounter D'Regs and shortly afterwards meet those tasked with defending the Klatchian border. But we begin with a brief glimpse or two of events in or nearer to Ankh-Morpork…**_

 _ **for the reader who asked how it all worked out for Glod the Dwarf. He got visited by Science...**_

 _ **Now read on…**_

 _Prologue: Lancre Town._

The elderly witch threw back her head and roared with laughter. Bekki Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons made a happy glugging noise and snuggled close to her new Nanny. She had run straight away to the small but wide old lady who had beamed with delight and held her arms out in welcome. Bekki was not one to turn down a new Nanny when one was offered. And anyway, this Nanny knew Daddy and treated him with a sort of friendly amusement, as if she found him funny. Bekki settled down to watch and listen.

"So you're here to see this Dwarf up in Slice." she said. "And your missus said she knows it really excites you, Ponder, and you want to hop on that train to Hot Dang right away. Well, she says, take Bekki with you… and aren't you a _lovely_ little kiddie? I got a sweetie here for a good little girl… and do what she calls father-daughter bonding. Give her a couple of days holiday as a treat, and _don't forget you're not on your own and don't leave her anywhere_. I'm thinkin' she'd have got _emphatic_ about that one?"

Ponder Stibbons nodded. He'd met Nanny Ogg for the first time, many years before. It was just possible that those memories would fade, given time. **(1)**

Nanny Ogg beamed.

"You was sort of courtin' young Lucy Tockley then, as I recall. All holding hands and awkward silences and red faces. I sort of thought, well, he'll get the hang of it _sometime_. Bound to. Most young people figures it out. And then I sees you got wed to Johanna. Nice girl, bit direct. Don't do small-talk. Has to be big talk or nothing. You know, when I go to the city I tends to see people like Madam Emmanuelle. Doesn't stand much on ceremony, that one, and she knows some stories! We got a lot in common, even allowing for her bein' an Assassin, and me a Witch. Thinks she'll grow older into somebody like me, only Quirmian. Oh, we has a laugh, me and her. Learned _loads_ of interstin' Quirmian words. Now _she_ was worried about whether or not Johanna could work out what you might call the _specifics,_ she havin' known her since they was both students. And I thought with you bein' a wizard, we weren't quite sure either way."

She smiled down at Bekki, who was looking up with big-eyed interest.

"And it turns out you got the specifics right. Twice. Aaaah, isn't she _sweet!"_

"So, you think we can get a lift up to Slice in the morning?" Ponder asked. He was keen to talk to the Dwarf Glod Glodssecondcousin, who had recently had an Experience. Ponder thought, with excitement, that this could really contribute to the infant science of geothermic hydrostasis **(2)** on the Disc, and offer another little pointer to what was _really_ going on. He just had to combine that with being a working father.

And the account of a strange event that his sister-in-law had sent back from Klatch was something that _really_ fired his interest. Johanna had smiled tolerantly and said fine, I understand you need to go up there. But you can be a hands-on father, and take Bekki.

She hadn't added that there might be another reason to take Bekki to Lancre. And introduce her to some people. Who will _understand_.

Nanny Ogg nodded, happily.

"I tell you, Ponder. Whatever happened in Slice to send that little bu… _that Dwarf_ … to Klatch, it weren't witches. Nothing to do with us. Though I concede Esme, _godsresthersoul_ , was capable of some novel things when she got riled. And young Millie Hopgood ain't that sort of witch. Interestin' though. Nobody knows for sure what's at the bottom of that hole. Till now, nobody's ever been down far enough. Saving this Dwarf."

"So you've heard the story?" Ponder asked, politely. Senior wizards had a sort of professional understanding with the Disc's most respected and senior witches. It spared the alternative.

"From the Dwarf himself." Nanny said. "Young Irena flew in from forn parts to see our Jason at the forge to get her horse shod. Allus one for flyin', young Irena. And our Jason is the only smith as can shoe _that_ sort of horse. So while he's doin' the horse, Irena stops by out of courtesy, the Dwarf comes with her 'cos he's hopin' for somebody goin' over Slice way in a cart as can give him a lift, and Irena's thinkin' as how I know somebody who might, and we has a cup of tea and we talks, witch to witch, and Glod tells his story, and I'm thinkin', well, _could_ be magic, can't rule it out. But what if it ain't?"

She took another swig of her pint.

"'Sides, that Dwarf had sand on him. You don't get it round here."

There was a reflective silence.

"Hear your sister-in-law's stirrin' things in Klatch? Runs in the family."

Ponder sighed. He'd been a witness to the long metamorphosis of Mariella Smith-Rhodes from a shy, gawky, eleven-year-old into an assured and observant graduate Assassin, with a deadpan snarky sense of humour, and a way of looking at you that left the uneasy impression she'd just been identifying and meticulously listing your weak points, for attention at an unspecified later date. And her best friend Rivka was exactly the same, only _worse_.

"And she was there when this Dwarf popped up in an oasisis, gaspin' for breath. Apparently some camels was lookin' at him funny. If I was you, Ponder, I'd ask about the camels. Strange things happen around them animals."

Nanny Ogg smiled benevolently at Bekki.

"And if I was you, Ponder, I'd leave this little babby girl with her Nanny Ogg tomorrow. You don't want her fallin' into no holes. I'm bettin' _Johanna_ wouldn't like it, and 'sides, there's no tellin' where on Disc she'll pop up. Might not be water down there next time, either. I'm not holding my breath it'll be anywhere her auntie could rescue her, either. And I'm just _bettin'_ this little girl's adventurous and inquisitive."

She looked Ponder Stibbons right in the eye.

"Gives me a chance to get to know Bekki a little bit better. Get introduced. 'Cos if what I see in her is right, this won't be her _last_ visit to Lancre. Not by a _long_ way. You did right to bring her with you."

Nanny billed and cooed some more over Bekki.

"She got _potential_!" she announced.

"Yes. I was worried it would come to that." Ponder said, gloomily.

* * *

 _ **Extracts From The Minutes of a Meeting of the Dark Council of the Guild of Assassins.**_

 _Minutes taken by Miss Hortensia Wilmslowe, Personal Assistant to the Dark Council._

 _Classification: extremely restricted._

 _ **Members Present: as previously. (3)**_

DD remarked that indirectly, it was a prestigious thing for the Guild that a newly-discovered animal, long rumoured to exist and often reported in folklore - but until now, with no hard scientific evidence to validate it - should have been named after the Guild member who succeeded in collecting a specimen, _ **Lagomorphus Cuniculus Monoceros M Smith Rhodesii.**_

RdM observed that the Smith-Rhodes family appear to have had an awfully large lot of Howondaland named after them, so adding a lethally violent killer rabbit with a spike on its nose wasn't really too surprising, and might in some degree be wryly appropriate.

GN asked, she doesn't intend to breed from them, does she?

RdM replied that this hardly seemed possible as the Pegasus pilot who returned to the City brought one very dead specimen with her that had been run through the body with a pointed sharp weapon, possibly a lance or spear, together with several pelts and skulls bearing the distinctive and somewhat un-leporine horn. Doctor Smith-Rhodes realised the value of the find and got it to the Animal Management Unit for preservation and study.

JSR2 said she'd heard the stories about unicorn rabbits. Klatchian myths think they're some sort of Undead, aren't they? Please assure me we've not missed anything here.

CdY said that he was certain all precautions had been taken, especially after that business a few years ago with the leopards **.(4)** And his understanding was that those Klatchians who had survived attacks by this pack animal had been moved to take a perfectly normal lethally murderous animal with nothing supernatural about it, and to assign it a magical or Undead status it did not in fact have. He imagined that being beaten in a fight by a rabbit has got to be bloody embarrassing, so you inflate the adversary a bit. You know, talk it up. Tales grow in the telling, and all that.

MH mused that those rabbits are, by all accounts, what's the new-fangled word, dynamite. The preferred option, in even Klatchian literature on the topic, is "run away".

CdY remarked that the people involved appeared to have done damned well, considering. And submitted a useful report. A useful account to add to the Klatchian Desert Survival section of the Dark Library.

DD said we are all straying from the topic here. Are we agreed that the action taken and the proposed resolution of the Lensen situation is both elegant and timely? And offers us a face-saving solution we can privately brief the Howondalandian Ambassador with, so as to avert bad publicity and a possible international incident?

LT'M said that _buying_ the boy, though. Then getting him to a safe house. That is admirably skewed thinking. I do agree with our operatives, when they pointed out that breaking into the slave compound and freeing him by force could be viewed as theft under Klatchian law, which is applicable here. And therefore raises demarcation issues with the Guild of Thieves, a situation all our members are instructed to avoid.

GN asked if Klatch even _has_ a Guild of Thieves.

XP said he understood that Klatch has thieves, yes. Who traditionally come in loose associations of forty members, which he understands is traditional and cultural. These form a loose Guild-like association, but do not have the same official sanction as is enjoyed here. Indeed, not-very-good thieves in Klatch are distinguished by the fact their arms end abruptly at the wrist. _Really_ bad Thieves find their arms will end abruptly at _both_ wrists. Any thief who is creatively inventive enough in those circumstances to attempt theft again will discover that after two strong hints, their bodies will abruptly end at the neck. The Klatchians do rather believe in the "three-strikes-and-you're-dead" approach to crime and punishment.

Older members of the Council voiced a degree of approval at the robust Klatchian approach to law-and-order.

AB remarked, let me get this straight. There is a student of Rimwards Howondalandian nationality. Waylaid in Klatch by slave-traders who then sold him on the block. He is bought by a Klatchian graduate of this Guild. Making him, seemingly, her slave. Which is perfectly legal under Klatchian law. However, the money to purchase him was advanced by a Guild graduate _also_ from Rimwards Howondaland. Where outright slavery, as opposed to everyday apartheid, is totally illegal. Who has graciously loaned her property to the Klatchian graduate, who is to provide opportunities for him to escape and thus fulfil his exam conditions. If he recognises them. The said Klatchian graduate has said she will not pursue him too vigorously if and when he makes his break. But the issue is, has Miss Smith-Rhodes committed an actionable crime under the laws of her own country? Even though this was legal under the local jurisdiction? And are we accessories after the fact, as a legal and corporate entity? Which is headquartered in a third jurisdiction?

DD said that to resolve _that_ one, you'd need to retain the services of a lawyer skilled in the subtleties of international law. At possibly $200 per hour for a prolonged period. So let's not go there, shall we, Alice? Besides, my information is that the Rimwards Howondalandian Ambassador is somewhat relieved, and is inclined to use his influence to smooth over any little irregularities. I believe he is quite fond of his nieces, which simplifies things somewhat. And as has been noted, the wider Smith-Rhodes family is not without influence. And, if necessary, lawyers.

JSR1 reminded the Council that Miss Smith-Rhodes has advanced four thousand dollars of her own money to resolve the situation. Granted, the girl can afford it. And I don't see her as having any other choice here. But it does rather wipe out her completion fee. Can she not claim it as valid expenses?

HW intervened to advise about the strained state of Guild finances.

JSR1 and AB both remarked that you always say that. HW said that it is his job to say that.

DD said that there is possibly a valid case here, if Miss Smith-Rhodes can supply genuine original receipts. Klatchian slave markets must give receipts?

It was agreed that on production of receipts, the legitimate expenses of Miss Smith-Rhodes, incurred on a Guild contract, could be paid. It was also agreed that as Mr Lensen's own negligence may well have contributed to his detention, and incurred the not inconsiderable costs of a mission to intervene and rescue him, the four thousand dollars it took to get him out could, justifiably, be invoiced to him. Prompt payment would be appreciated. And now, DD said, we need to discuss other issues of professional ethics that have arisen. Thoughts on the activities of the Sultana Miriam bint-Alhazred, please?

AB said that the Sultana had in her way been an above-average pupil and one she had been pleased to keep in touch with after her return to Klatch. They had frequently exchanged letters in which Miriam had thoughtfully kept her old Housemistress up to date with her new situation, and AB had been diligent in providing ongoing mentoral assistance and guidance. It could not be denied that she had served the Guild faithfully in the recent situation. Besides, the sad demise of her husband had been a legitimate Guild contract.

LT'M agreed that in her specific disciplines, the Sultana had been an outstanding pupil and a pleasure to teach. JSR1 echoed this, as did HM, who said that he very rarely considers a pupil to be above-average and is not in the habit of giving undue praise.

DD agreed, and said that the unfortunate and unexpected demises of her three co-wives could safely be regarded as due to a conjunction of unhappy accidents and misfortunes. Any suspicion of freelance inhumation, theft, and assassination carried out privately, merely to advance one's social standing, could be dismissed as hearsay and libel. He proposed the Ethics and Standards Committee should close the book on that one.

B, as Chair of the Ethics and Standards Committee, agreed. He then raised the issue of the Sultana's gift to Doctor Smith-Rhodes to celebrate the arrival of her daughters. Doctor Smith-Rhodes had received a box containing miscellaneous articles of jewellery, described for Customs purposes as "trinkets of sentimental value suitable to delight young girls, as pretty sparkling things will."

Doctor Smith-Rhodes had then had those trinkets, and sparkly items of costume jewellery, valued. They turned out to be worth $37,775 and fifty-seven pence.

CN'E questioned the fifty-seven pence.

B explained that one ring, on examination, turned out to have a spircle in it, valued at fifty-seven pence, so it is possible that somewhere in the past somebody had been swindled. But the rest is composed of the finest Klatchian craftsmanship, gold, silver, platinum, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, et c. Doctor Smith-Rhodes was properly concerned about these having previously belonged to the Sultana's co-wives, now deceased. She has asked for a ruling as to whether or not these constitute the proceeds of theft following an unauthorised inhumation. Just to clear herself.

DD said that we have established that the Sultana's co-wives died in a series of regrettable little accidents and misadventures. The Sultana inherited their property legitimately under Klatchian probate law, and is at perfect liberty to dispose of it however she wishes. Doctor Smith-Rhodes was correct to bring a possible ethical issue to our attention, but we can reassure her that no Guild rules have been breached, there is no possibility of complaint from any authority including the Guild of Thieves, and the items legitimately belong to her daughters, as their benefactress so intended. I move we thank her for her probity and diligence, and we hope her daughters continue to get great joy and delight from playing with the sparkly pretty things.

This was agreed nem con, with informal agreement of "some people are born lucky!" and "wish _my_ old students remembered their teachers that way!"

With no other business, the meeting rose.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch._

Hi Johanna!

Hoping you got the strange rabbit and you were able to put it on ice. Mariella wonders if the girls will enjoy playing dress-up as Klatchian Princesses with the necklaces and rings and bracelets and stuff. She also remembers Ponder has a pretty good thaumatologically locked and protected safe in his study. You may need it.

Well, we got through the worst of the desert. Seventy-One Hours Ahmed parted from us after nearly three days were up, apologised for not being able to stay longer, and pointed us to a gap between two mountains. This is clearly visible in the near distance and marks a pass into Ymitury. He advised us there are two Foreign Legion forts in the area that send out occasional patrols, but these should be easy to evade. Just an understrength garrison on a quiet border with no obvious enemy on the other side. Then he took the loaned pack-camel and rode off back to Miriam. We watched him go, and then set off for the pass on our own.

The ground was getting higher and it was still largely sand and rocks, but the trail was clear. We rode up into the higher ground for a day or two. It was also getting cooler, relatively speaking, than the deep desert and there were even waterholes close to the trail. We thought nobody else was around. We were wrong.

On the second night, we had established camp when a fight broke out. Not around us, but near enough. We laid low and tried to get an idea as to what was going on. It appeared to be two rival tribes, or clans, settling a disagreement of their own that did not concern us. We were happy to let this state of affairs continue and were relieved as the sounds of battle receded away.

Then we discovered men who had found our camp.

One of them grinned at us and invited us to pass over our camels, valuables and other useful things into new ownership.

We drew our swords and said "no." Only one of them, in the dark, appeared to have a crossbow ready to fire. But the dark is useful to both sides in a fight. Mariella said

"Do you see this sword in my right hand?" and waved her machete.

"What of it, strange person from Ur?" the archer said, and raised his weapon.

Mariella shot him.

"Good. You should have been watching the pistol crossbow in my left hand." she said.

I do appreciate the Smith-Rhodes family and their direct approach to problem-solving.

"But your crossbow now needs reloading, little lady." said another bandit. He reached for an arrow for his bow and grinned mockingly at her. This time I shot him.

"Mine didn't." I said. "Next, please?"

Men who gloat rather than fight are so easy.

A third archer stood forward.

"But your bow is now unloaded." he said.

"Guess again." I said. Over and under crossbows may take more maintenance, but so useful when somebody thinks you've shot your only bolt.

A fourth man was nocking an arrow, Mariella had dropped her crossbow. She now had the shepherd's sling she'd learnt and practiced with in Cenotia. He went down with a grunt as the rock hit.

The fifth and sixth looked at each other and raised their hands.

"Can't we rob you a little bit?" they pleaded. "It looks bad if you go back to the camp and say you got stitched up, offendi!"

"No." I said. "You can help your mates away, though. I don't think any of them were actually killed. No contract on you, for one thing."

They looked at each other.

"Only the Hashishim arm and train women…" one said.

"Hold that thought." I said.

One looked at me speculatively.

"How many camels would your father accept for your bride-price, fair warrior?" he asked. "I think I can go as high as forty…"

"Not a chance." I said. I looked at Mariella. She didn't speak Klatchian.

"What about my friend?"

He shook his head.

"If I was looking, and I'm not, a wild red-haired woman from _Candwa al-sher Alahmir?_ Too unruly. Bad tempered. Not what you want in a wife. Got to be properly submissive, wives. Three. Tops."

I did not translate this.

We had only wounded three men and knocked a fourth unconscious. But three men with arrows in their arms can walk and two unhurt men can carry an unconscious one. They seemed keen to leave.

We considered our options. They'd gathered we were "hashishim", of sorts, and we hadn't denied it. That was good. News would spread. But it meant we had to get out of there quickly. Somebody was bound to join the dots and realise there was a price on our heads.

We swiftly packed the camels and got on the road again. The pass into the next country was getting closer and closer. We took a chance on a defile with high banks on either side as the dawn was breaking. Then we heard a voice shout

"Errr. Halt!"

We looked up. Soldiers dressed in Central Continent style, with buff-coloured trousers and blue tunics with white cross-straps. They wore kepis in the Quirmian style.

And twenty or so were pointing crossbows at us. We halted.

"Why is hardly anyone ever pleased to see us?" Mariella said.

Several soldiers came down to meet us. They wore stripes of rank in the Quirmian manner.

"They _look_ like D'Reg, sarge." one said. "But they're, err, thing, remember it in a minute…"

"Women." The sergeant said. "I think. My mother was one. Possibly."

We smiled.

"Could we kindly be allowed to go on our way, please?" I said, sweetly.

"We're just two travellers. On holiday." Mariella said.

The sergeant shook his head.

"We're the nearest thing to a customs post, miss. If you're planning on travelling into Ymitury, you'd best come to the, er, thing, big box. Made of stone. Got a gate. Yeah. _Fort._ That's it. Tall things at the corners. Towers."

"Got to see the Colonel, Miss. Miss." said the corporal. "He'll decide if you're allowed to pass."

We rode with them. After all, it shouldn't be too difficult to break out of a Klatchian Foreign Legion fort. They'd probably forget we were ever there, five minutes later.

* * *

 _ **to be continued. It's two in the morning and i'm running out of awake. The next chapter will inolve meeting the Colonel and leaving Klatch behind. I have a twist planned.**_

 **(1)** see _**Lords and Ladies**_ , by Terry Pratchett.

 **(2)** What water does when given the right sort of prompts and nudges. Why rivers keep flowing into seas and never get empty. And if you live on a flat disc, where it goes to when it slops off the edge and why the Disc never runs out of water. If you can fall down a deep hole in Lancre, hit water, and pop up three thousand miles away in Klatch, this is going to interest the right sort of mind,

 **(3)** Refer to Chapter Seven.

 **(4)** Refer to my tale _**Whys and Weres**_

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **.**

 **Urusai! – Japanese for "Shut Up!" (Agatean character name?) From a tv tropes page on manga/animé cartoons.**


	15. all aboard the (camel) train

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter fifteen:**_ _ **Obliviscor**_ _ **(ps)**_

 _ **EDIT: Minor corrections plus jokes I didn't think of first time round.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general African region may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Bit of a long preambulary essay…. You asked, I answer!**_

 _ **For those who have asked, most of the background I've expanded on, and lots of details, can be found in the posthumously published work by Terry Pratchett and others –**_ **The Compleat Discworld Atlas** _ **, published in late 2015. This is written as a sort of "gazetteer" of the Discworld, as seen through the eyes of interested parties such as the Guild of Explorers and Trespassers, and organisations such as the Post Office, the Hygienic Railway Company, and the Grand Trunk Clacks, who have accepted the burden of creating reliable communications routes through some pretty inhospitable terrain.**_

 _ **Although some things are my own addition.**_

 _ **I have added several non-canonical countries which are not to be found on the official Mapp – the CDA, by the way, includes a FAR better Mapp of the Disc than the previously issued one.**_

" _ **Cenotia", the Discworld's err, not-Israel-in-the-same-way-Fourecks-is-not-Australia, is my OC country. It fits in with its immediate neighbours being Istanzia, Klatch, Omnia and Ephebe. This fits the Holy Land vibe of Biblical Palestine having mutual cultural influence with Greece, having Phoenicians, Philistines and Moabites as neighbours, having been part of a mighty Empire, and being holy to more than one religion. The modern Israel also has a former enemy, now neutral, or neutral-ish, on two sides (Jordan and Egypt), and a question mark caused by the presence of a large hostile regional hegemony that doesn't like its existence very much. And the schismatic daughter religion which is massive in size and has a sort of embarrassed foot-shuffling ambivalence concerning its previous attitudes to Jews. And that's all I'm saying here without losing readers or being contentious. There is of course a canonical referent for "Cenotians" – although they're variably called Cenobian and other forms in canon. Father, or possibly Rabbi, Tubelcek, the old priest whose death is the early mystery in "Feet of Clay", is described as one of the last men in the City who knows the secret of making golems. He is priest to a small but fiercely loyal congregation who are reluctant to open up to outsiders and who have their own particular funerary customs… and all Golems have an indefinably "Yiddish" quality to them. Granted, the Dwarfs appear to have a lot of the qualities generally ascribed to Jews on Roundworld. (there are scholarly essays out there, including those on the L-Space Wiki, on the Dwarfs =Jews thing. Wish I could link on FF). But there is ample room for humans too.**_

 _ **And at the other end of the continent, another of those former colonies which, for Ankh-Morpork, periodically re-emerge like inconvenient icebergs in major shipping lanes. Rimwards Howondaland, neighboured by the semi-canonical Matabeleland and Zulu Empire (the CDA has a general article about black kingdoms called, loosely, the Kingdoms of Howondaland, so there is wiggle-room here). Canon hints in several places at the existence of a Discworld "South Africa", in much the same way that the earliest Discworld books had cryptic references to an Australia-like place. Which later got its own full realisation. I suspect Terry was timed out by the Embuggerance before he could get round to doing South Africa. But… it's here. Even "Smith-Rhodesia", which when I first found the enigmatic one-line reference in canon to an Assassin school-teacher called Miss Smith-Rhodes – well, that sort of demanded a story line. Which grew. And grew. And grew. This is its latest budding into flower. Enjoy.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka were last seen as guests of the Klatchian Foreign Legion, a hardy military unit tasked with maintaining the integrity of the sovereign borders of the Klatchian Empire. They meet an officer who is très sympathetique, gallant, and courteous, in the accepted Quirmian manner. Eventually they cross the Mountains of the Moon into Ymitury.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

Dear Johanna

I am pleased to advise you that we have now left Klatch, and the possibility of arrest by the Klatchian authorities has receded onto the other side of the Mountains of the Moon. (Miriam did advise us before we left that she will use her influence with the Brotherhood of Mount Inhalat, to request they decline any proposed contract on behalf of the Klatchian government. She will cite the need for the Hashishim to continue maintaining friendly relations with Filigree Street as a reason, and will point out that any escalating misunderstandings between our two organisations will be un-necessarily weakening and destructive to both sides. A gratuitous war from which only our enemies will benefit. I understand the Hahishim watched the advent of the City Watch in Ankh-Morpork with interest, and are monitoring the rise of Seventy-One Hour Ahmed's growing force of _walis_ , the _Walilhim_ **.(1)** Taking inspiration from the City Watch, the _Walilhim_ are growing in influence at Court, and their efficiency at policing crime has been favourably noted by Prince Khufurah. I suspect the Hashishim are clever people who do not want pointless confrontation.)

We are now in the neighbouring state of Ymitury and are headed for the capital city of Re'durat, ruled by that Pasha who is the descendent of Pashas who have been variously visited by Heroes, Thieves, Assassins and Hashishim. I gather that the job role does not carry long-term security and insurance companies decline to offer premiums. The current Pasha is said to have very well-founded paranoia, so we are in no hurry to reveal to the world that we are licenced Assassins.

(Conina, our hairdresser, once visited this place on business. I understand she called upon a previous Pasha, in the course of her former employment as a Thief and Barbarian Heroine **. (2)** Her memories of the land and the city were most helpful in planning our itinerary.)

We are accompanying a camel caravan called the Marraquesh Express. I gather "marraquesh'' is the word, in the Ymiturian tongue, for "clueless traveller from the Central Continent with their head stuffed full of romantic notions, when it is not fogged with poor-quality bhong that they do not know how to smoke, and take to excess". The Ymiturians, being a hospitable people with a sense of responsibility to travellers, sigh heavily and seek to prevent harm coming to such travellers. We explained that we did try bhong once, did indeed inhale, and saw the alarming side-effects - so without offence, we really don't want to try it again. This appeared to gain great approval from our hosts.

We are therefore, with extreme reluctance, shepherding a group of such travellers to a "youth hostel" in Re'durat, where they will be discreetly kept from bringing harm to themselves or others and hopefully educated about Ymitury. The Pasha is apparently clued up on the benefits the tourist dollar brings to his nation and stresses that the tourist trade should not be hindered or endangered by encounters with, for instance, bandits and thieves. The Pasha has decreed that visitors to his nation, however naïve, should be treated with courtesy and respect.

The people we are escorting are about the same age as ourselves, are also recent graduates of schools around the Central Continent, and are apparently on the Hubwards Klatchian equivalent of The Grand Sneer before returning home to the Sto Plains to take up gainful employment or future study. Some are even from faraway Lower Aceria and insist on wearing flowers, even in their hair, and calling everything "hip" or "groovy". Some are put out that there is no clacks here – this appears to appal them – as they cannot send message back to Mummy and Daddy asking for more money. I pointed out that the only nation on the continent with the Clacks is my own home of Rimwards Howondaland, several thousand miles to the Rimwards. (but getting nearer every day!)

Apparently there is a place in Lower Aceria called "Californicatia" that generates such clueless and opinionated young adults. (I believe you once went to its equivalent on the Roundworld, and liked it? Then again, Penélopé de Pasadène, who you introduced me to on one of her visits, is most likeable and level-headed. As she is married to a man much like Ponder, this is perhaps mandated for her **.(3))**

Such people, I hear, marked by vapidity and a tendency to babble at great length concerning trivial or superficial things, are called "Vallé Girls". Somehow it fits. I find it surprising that some of them are recent alumni of places like the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies and other prestigious schools. You expect them to be brighter than that. Ah well.

And quite a few of the Lower Acerians on what they call the Hip Trail are in fact from the Cenotian community out there. Rivka, privately, has a word for these "Californicatians" which has far less syllables but sounds something like. She tries to be diplomatic with those who share her ethnicity and religion, but it is an uphill struggle. Acerian Cenotians, especially those from the big almost-cities, tend to be plagued with demons largely of their own inventing. Anxieties, phobias, insecurities, guilt complexes, fads about food, all the (I suspect) largely imaginary complaints that psychiatry calls "ailments of the mind". New ones appear to be defined several times a week, at $25 per hour on the therapeutist's couch. If psychiatry has largely been defined and given structure by Cenotian doctors, it appears logical that Cenotians should suffer most. Ah well. Or even oi vey!

I spoke to a girl of my own age, a Lower Acerian standing about five feet talland affecting clothing in various shades of blue (claiming it was groovy and went with her hair and eyes), who had been given the unforgettable name of Lunar Component Rosenberg by her parents. (Unworldly musicians and artists). Apparently they, the parents, did the Hip Trail twenty-five years ago. "Hip", I discovered, is another word for "cool", as in "stylish", "in vogue" or "of the moment".

These "hippy people" believe in peace, love, understanding and universal brotherhood and practice a non-violent ethos in which pacifism is emphasised.

Rivka and I exchanged a look. At our school, we are taught to be pleasant and sociable to people. To understand them, as deeply as it needs. To be at peace with them until we need to be the alternative. But non violent pacifism? Ah well. They'll learn.

But for now, we're tasked to steer them. It's a job. And it gets us bed and board from those native Ymiturians tasked with their stewarding, who appear thankful to have us.

"It's a living." Rivka said. "Just about."

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch and now in Ymitury._

Hi Johanna!

I last wrote on the circumstances of our leaving Klatch, avoiding being absorbed into a fight between two clans expressing their deep differences of opinion with each other, and being raided by bandits. Who, we discovered later, turned out not to be true D'Regs but the related Toerag tribe, thought to have a tutelary affiliation with the scalbie bird. (although this may be casual slander on the part of other clans). These Toerags had slipped away from the ambush by true d'Regs to do a bit of freelance plundering, two unwary women travelling on the fringes of the battle being seen (erroneously) as a safer bet.

Shortly afterwards, we reasoned that whatever else a Klatchian Foreign Legionary may forget, he never forgets which end of a crossbow is which nor where the trigger is. Twenty such weapons pointing at us acted as a persuasive reason to accompany the patrol back to the fort. We reasoned that we could, if necessary, deploy our trade skills to leave the fort again, silently and inobtrusively.

And so we arrived at Fort Ali Ghimel And Sons (Builders), Bespoke Military Fortifications A Speciality, Reasonable Rates. Well, that's what it said on the fading and battered notice outside. Somebody has to build them, I suppose.

I reflected that outside Al-Khali and other principal cities on the coast, Klatch as yet has no Clacks. So Wanted posters and physical descriptions of us may not have reached here yet. So we could bluff our way out without needing to resort to the limited, measured, and strictly proportional response we are taught to deploy in these circumstances.

It was a typical military depot, a roughly square fortress with high battlemented walls, a keep, and two towers at opposite corners. The flags of Klatch, and interestingly, Quirm, flew from the tower. The gate was a fairly sturdy one, but we noticed small postern doors in each visible wall. This was for the good. They might forget to lock them at night. (Full report and sketched diagrams attached for Guild information, under the usual heads of size, structural strengths and weaknesses, garrision size, morale of troops, leadership, routes in and out of key points, location of Armoury, et c)

Passing underneath the oddly out of place red, white and blue tricolour of Quirm, we entered the fort. Everything was done with courtesy, as it appeared to be accepted now that we were two female travellers who were not Klatchian and should therefore be treated with respect. Perhaps our weapons, which indicated that we knew what we were doing and could look after ourselves, were a factor. Our camels were taken for stabling, and we were offered coffee whilst the commanding officer was advised of our presence. A discreet guard was notionally looking after us, but his attention kept wandering and he kept blinking. This was all for the good.

And then a small, slightly limping, officer in a formal blue frock coat, which hung strangely on his frame, and who was wearing an over-large kepi, joined us. He wore the Quirmian rank badges of Captain, with the red trim announcing him to be of the surgeon-general's branch.

Capitaine Igor turned out to be the medical officer. And did not seem to have forgotten his medical training. He diffidently asked if, after our journey across the desert, we might need any medical assistance.

Mariella said perhaps he could help. I agree with her: ideally consult an Igorina. If not an Igorina, then a senior nurse with experience. Then a male doctor, if you have to. (although those trained by Mossy Lawn are good). An Igor is one you can always trust, however. Diligent and professional attention is built in.

We saw him in the fort surgery, and received treatment for minor things picked up in the desert. These involved cleansing agents to self-administer, and wonderfully soothing salves to go into places where sand had reached. Mariella was most relieved. Igor also checked for other possible things, but announced that there were no unwelcome passengers such as lice, fleas or other irritating parasites. We were, he said, two young women in peak physical condition. He seemed disappointed by this. Probably no scope to transplant limbs or bodily organs.

We asked how an Igor gets into the Klatchian Foreign Legion. He shrugged, and said Igors go where they are needed. His was an appointment, and the Klatchian Army had been pleased to award the courtesy rank of Captain. We mentioned Matron Igorina at the Guild School. Captain Igor seemed excited and said she was his cousin and has a magnificent reputation among Igors. But then, she gets a lot of chances to show her talent. How is she? Please remember Capitaine Igor of the Klatchian Foreign Legion to her. (She will know him, of course!)

And then a guard turned up to escort us to the Commanding Officer, who would decide if we could be allowed to travel further. We memorised the internal layout of the fort offices in between Surgery and Commandant's Office.

And then things took a turn for the better.

The first thing we saw on being ushered into the Colonel's office was a very large iconographic portrait on the wall. It was of a very familiar person indeed. And her two sons. There was a plaque underneath. It read

 _Ceci est extrêmement important! C'est ta marie ! Defènse d'oublier ! Elle s'appele Emmanuelle-Marie. Defènse d'oublier ! Tu as deux fils. Defènse d'oublier ! Emmanuel-Martin (ainé) et Phillipe-Henri (cadet). Defènse d'oublier !_

You will have guessed, of course, who the portrait was of. Madame Emmanuelle-Marie Lapoignard les Deux-Epées, Comptesse de Lapoignard. Your neighbour, mother of two cute little boys, and most relevantly, our former housemistress and tutor in Bladed Weapons.

And the Colonel. He must have been twenty years older than Madame Emmanuelle, but dapper, slightly balding, with the sort of fussy moustache Quirmian men like to think is dashing.

He did wear a lot of medals, though, including several we recognised were for bravery in battle. This makes sense, I think. Madame Emmanuelle's actual husband, as opposed to any other male person she spends time with, must be a man with something outstanding about him. She would not settle for mediocrity. And a husband who works a long, long, way away for nine or ten months of the year must be a convenient factor in a Quirmian marriage.

He looked at the picture for a few moments and frowned in perplexity, then apparently remembered.

"My wife and my sons." he said, with pride.

"We know her, monsieur. And the boys." Mariella said, in Quirmian.

" _mon colonel!"_ I whispered, nudging her. Military types can get stroppy about being addressed as if they were civilians.

But Colonel Maurice, Chevalier et Compte de Lapoignard, waved this away with a smile.

"I cannot be offended by those who my wife knows, and perhaps holds in her esteem." he said.

"She taught us, mon colonel." I said. We talked about our association with Madame Emmanuelle for some time, describing how we were often baby-sitters for her cute sons, and how the boys are getting on, and their friendship with their playmates Davvie Bellamy and Bekki Smith-Rhodes-Stibbons.

"You fill my heart with warmth, mesdemoiselles." the colonel said. "And you are the _cadette_ sister of the most _formidable_ Johanna Smith-Rhodes? Ah oui, I perceive the family resemblance."

He frowned.

"A red-haired woman believed to be from Rimwards Howondaland. And a travelling associate. I seem to recall I received a memo concerning such a pair."

We tensed slightly.

"It probably says I am to speed you on to your destination without undue delay, or something. Can't quite recall. Possibly, it is on the desk somewhere. Never mind, it is of no account."

And then a knock on the door calling the Colonel to some emergency or other situation in the fort requiring his presence. He nodded to the young sous-lieutenant, and excused himself.

"I shall return. Please excuse me."

We were alone in his office. I considered the paper-strewn desk. A minute or so of discreet searching located the despatch from al-Khali, which bore our likenesses and an imperative order to arrest, detain, and to hand over these people for interrogation. Our likenesses had evidently been copied from newspaper iconographs.

"Five thousand gold dinars?" I said, with real indignance. "Gevalt, _slaves_ sell for more than that!" Then I hid the memo inside my shirt.

With luck, the Colonel will probably forget he ever received it. It omitted the all-important _Defènse d'oublier !,_ for one thing. He certainly did not refer to it again on his return.

Well, we attended an evening dinner at the Officers' Mess, with a fine Quirmian wine list. Although the enlisted men can come from all nations of the Disc, the officers of the Legion are nearly exclusively drawn from Quirm, by long-standing arrangement.

Apparently, the Officer School at St Cyril, near Quirm City, schools young officers for the Legion. It shows. Dinner was a fine Quirmian affair, incongruous in such a strange place, with lots of toasts and much joviality. I received six offers of marriage and thirteen invitations to discreet _affaires_ from the officers. They were not too difficult to refuse. Mariella was treated with polite courtesy but received no propositions of any kind. I think she is both irritated and quietly relieved.

And the following morning, in the pre-dawn, we crossed into Ymitury. I kept the Wanted notice as a souvenir. It will be amusing to show people. But I ask you. Five thousand dinars. I should have Mariella sell me as a slave, have her help me break out, and then run away, having pocketed the money. We'd be worth more.

Later in the morning we met the Marraquesh Express and were offered employment. I am reflecting that bed and board comes at a price. Gevalt.

* * *

 _The International Hostel for Youth of all Nations, Re'durat, Ymitury._

Hi Johanna!

A flavour of life here. A conversation at dinner:

 _(somewhat pampered child of over-indulgent parents, one) :_ "What the Hell!"

 _(somewhat pampered child of over-indulgent parents, two) :_ "Falafel."

 _(Rivka ben-Devorah, a Realist)_ "Doesn't matter to me. It's food!"

She added: "If you're hungry, you're not too particular about what you'll taste. Gevalt, so you've never been hungry recently. I _have._ So don't complain." **(4)  
**

Falafel seems to come with every meal. It seems as much a part of Ymitury as the wahoonie and the potato are to Ankh-Morpork, or the unfair slur that 90% of our diet is composed of _boerewors_ **.** But it isn't everything. And as we say to our peers on the Hip Trail, this is the true ethnic taste of the unspoilt Ymitury that you are keen to experience. It's the real deal. And the staple diet of most of the population, who are dirt poor people whose poverty you expressed a romantic desire to share. Well, now you are sharing it. It's what you wanted, isn't it?

"I quite like it." Rivka said. "Halfway between a matzo and hummous. Solid hummous, in fact. Not bad dipped into the harrisa sauce."

I agreed.

"These majoun balls aren't bad, either. Nice taste of sesame."

And having made our point, we left the hostel – whose basic economy meals are in fact adequate, although you wouldn't want to live on them – and went to find a good _riad i_ n the bazaar. We were debating, for instance, whether a lamb tagine went better with quince, prune or pomegranate, or if the ras el hanout lamb would be a better choice. We agreed over our real evening meal that this was the sort of thing that made a gap year touring other cultures into something really worthwhile. No Guild assignments, nobody needing skilled people to direct their lives or fight for them, nobody chasing us with an intent to kill or hand us over to skilled torturers. For now, at least We knew we'd probably get bored sooner or later, but right now this was pretty near heavenly.

All we needed to do at present was to be informal bodyguards to people of our own age who had been, perhaps, over-protected, sheltered and indulged as they grew up. Yes, they were on gap years too, in between leaving school and getting some sort of start into work. Yes, indulgent parents were probably paying for it, whereas we were using our own resources. Yes, there was an order of magnitude between their conception of a gap year and ours. But we reminded ourselves not to get superior about it or feel somehow morally elevated. This was the situation that we had to accept and deal with.

Keep an eye out, escort them, try to get it through to them that being on holiday does not mean you are somehow immune from thieves or street attackers or even a dose of Djelibeybi Fever from eating or drinking in the wrong place. To identify street thieves drawn to our current batch of unworldly dreamers, smile pleasantly at them, then shake our heads slightly whilst placing a not-threatening-at-all hand on our sword hilts. Message sent and received.

At least there is a Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy in this place where I can draw on my resources should I need to.

Did I mention that the Chargé d'Affaires here, the deputy to the ambassador, is Martin Vinhuis who was formerly at the Ankh-Morpork Embassy? He and Katerina were pleased to see me and they send you their best regards. Martin believes this is a stepping-stone to his next promotion, which is most likely to become Ambassador to a small nation of less international significance. The big prestigious ones, Ankh-Morpork, Klatch, Quirm, Agatea, Bonk-Schmaltzburg, are only for the most senior and experienced men. Everybody has to start off small. Katerina is prepared to "slum it" here for as long as it takes, but I think she is really made for a big city on the Central Continent. She misses Ankh-Morpork, I think. I hope he becomes an Ambassador. I find it amusing that although we are a Republic and have no nobility, Aunt Friejda absolutely insists on the courtesy title of "Lady", as she is wife to an Ambassador. I know Katerina is your lifelong friend since school and there is no malice in her – but I suspect she would insist on becoming Lady Katerina as wife to an ambassador. She is so like a younger Aunt Friejda. Maybe marriage to a diplomat creates them.

They introduced me to the ambassador, and we talked about our adventures in Klatch and Cenotia. He asked some very perceptive questions and I gave some, I hope, considered answers.

Nobody at this embassy is a Smith-Rhodes, by the way. I feel oddly relieved.

Please advise the Guild that Ambassador de Jeslein here received an urgent coded message from Uncle Pieter in Ankh-Morpork concerning the Lensen situation, as did all Ambassadors on this continent, and has expressed his concern to me about a possible diplomatic situation.

Fortunately I was able to give him a report on how the situation was resolved, omitting the detail about the idiot Horst Lensen still being, under Klatchian law, a slave, and that I am currently his de facto owner until I release him. I suspected this might present a few further details.

"So he is in a position to escape and resume his Guild-assigned task." de Jeslein said. "And the Guild representative who has him in a safe house is prepared to, in a clandestine way, safely direct him to the nearby border. Which means he may become my active responsibility."

The ambassador breathed a resigned sigh.

"Again. I recall a brash and opinionated youth who refused to heed advice that to be a solitary male traveler in Klatch, and to look so obviously foreign, would put him into serious danger. He saw a quick passage through Klatch into possibly Syrrit or Urt, via negotiated passage over the Great Nef on a landship, as being the swiftest overland route back into Rimwards Howondaland via Smith-Rhodesia. I suggested a more roundabout route may take longer but would be safer. He didn't listen."

You may need this to be added to his file. I would add that Rivka and I seriously thought about the express landship route over the Great Nef, but exciting though it is, so many things can go wrong there such as shipwreck and this holds out too much to fortune. The _Sha-Mo_ **(5)** is fast and a journey of a lifetime – but can so often be the last journey in a lifetime. You need to know what you are doing, and frankly we don't. Evidence of overconfidence again?

The ambassador sends fraternal regards to Uncle Pieter, by the way. He looks forward to a drink with him on a cool stoep overlooking the Veldt at sunset. Also, Katerina asks if you remember times as girls in the same dorm together at the Veldtsvolk Hoërskool en Akademie vir Jong Meisies Hendricka van Zyl. **(6)** (to think I would have been sent there too, if I hadn't won my place here!)

We are invited to join an Embassy delegation to a reception at the Pasha's Palace as part of the Rimwards Howondaland diplomatic group. The ambassador has stressed we should at no point let it slip that we are licenced Assassins. Apparently the Pasha is extremely paranoid about the Guild. Can you find out if the Guild wants us to perform any passive duties, such as reconnaissance tasks once inside the palace? It would not be disrespectful to our host to, for instance, write a full report afterwards containing any useful information Mr le Balouard or Doctor Perdore might find useful, and we have no objection to doing this.

Ambassador de Jeslein has kindly offered to forward our letters and despatches to you via the Embassy's diplomatic bag exchanged with Ankh-Morpork. Apparently one of the riders for the Pegasus Service collects from here and other Embassies as the service is faster and cheaper than the Klatchian carpet service. The Ambassador assures me BOSS are prevented from intercepting diplomatic communications. I'm sure two experienced Ambassadors, one of whom is Uncle Pieter, can contrive things to this happy end! Whether or not Lord Vetinari gets to read this as well is open to debate, but if so, I wish kindly old Uncle Havelock a long happy life. (smiles to herself.)

Enclosed will be some traditional girls' costumes from Ymitury which are both colourful and distinctive. Bekki might love them for dress-up games?

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Also known as the Klatchian Rangers or, in hushed tones, as The Judges, the Order of _Walilhim_ are a largely peripatetic force of law-enforces-cum-judges-cum executioners (where necessary), who are pledged to bring law to the lawless and justice into even the most remote parts of Klatch. This calls for hardy and resolute men with a sense of natural justice and enhanced self-preservation skills. Some who have met them speak in hushed lowered voices of _The Seventy-One Hour Men._ They were elevated to an Order at the express edict of Prince Khufurah, who had been watching the power-plays in Ankh-Morpork between Vetinari, the Guild of Assasins, and Sir Samuel Vimes' City Watch, with some interest. Khufurah reflected that anything that worried the Hashishim as much as the Assassins were worried by Sam Vimes could only be of benefit. Meanwhile, Seventy-One Hour Ahmed was learning from Sam Vimes... _  
_

 **(2)** Now retired from active Theft and Barbarian Heroing to establish a long-cherished dream of setting up as a hairdresser. She does a lot of Assassins, both qualified and student. See my story _Conina's Barbarian Hairdressers_ , and her cameos in various other tales.

 **(3)** I know.i've got to get cracking on continuing _**The Many Worlds Interpretation**_. But it takes thought to do justice to a comic creation like Sheldon Cooper. Patience.

 **(4)** Lifted from a song. Now identify singer, song, and context. Clue: stroppy and angry American poetess of punk.

 **(5)** the "Sha-Mo" , in the _**Compleat Discworld Atlas**_ , is the accepted name for the landship express route over the Great Nef. It is a dessicated waterway allowing for transit of goods and people across the most formidable desert on the disc – but not one for novices, the unprepared or the unwary. There are lots of hazards, such as the huge predatory leviathans living in the dessicated water. Or dessicated water storms that can cause ships to founder.

 **(6)** Trying to get "Academy for Young Ladies" into an Afrikaans format here... haven't thought about it very much, but Hendricka van Zyl (Prinzipal) might well be a Vonderlaander sister of Eulalie Butts. Or even Miss Delcross. And she got a very much younger Johanna Smith-Rhodes as a pupil. Which must have been educative for all concerned. (Name taken from a gazetteer of South African girls' schools)

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **An interesting blade for Madame Emmanuelle and her pupils to consider from (tv tropes). Showy, glamorous, looks stylish and spectacular, and if all else fails an Assassin (Ghatian?) can actually fight with it.** The Rajput weapon known as the _**Aara (or Urumi)**_ **,** is actually used _exclusively_ by twirling, as it is basically the lovechild of a sword and giant whip (it is composed of a normal sword hilt and one or more multi-foot blades so flexible that the weapon is worn like a belt when not in use). The user twirls around in circles simply to keep track of the weapons forward momentum and not injure themselves (although this has the additional effect of being a 360 area-attack). Whoever created this weapon actually managed to out-Hollywood Hollywood. Not only does the weapon make a noise like a cross between a whipcrack and two cookie-sheets banging together whenever it strikes something, but watching someone who knows how to use it demonstrate just that is like a cross between watching someone do the same thing with a whip, and ribbon dancing. The result is actually far more awesome and badass-looking than anything Hollywood has ever dreamt up. However, not only was the weapon intended to shock-and-awe and bitch-slap rather than do real damage, but it may be the single hardest weapon to master in pre-gunpowder history.

 **Bonus Lyrics**

 _ **Marrakesh Express**_ **by Crosby, Stills and Nash. About the 1960's "hippie trail" into North Africa in search of falafel, spiritual enlightenment and cheap drugs, with no hassle from the Man, man.**

Looking at the world  
Through the sunset in your eyes  
Trying to make the train  
Through clear Moroccan skies  
Ducks and pigs and chickens call  
Animal carpet wall to wall  
American ladies five foot tall in blue

Sweeping cobwebs from the edges of my mind  
Had to get away to see what we could find  
Hope the days that lie ahead  
Bring us back to where they've led  
Listen not to what's been said to you

Would you know we're riding  
On the Marrakesh Express  
Would you know we're riding  
On the Marrakesh Express, they're taking me to Marrakesh  
All on board the train, all on board the train

I've been saving all my money just to take you there  
I smell the garden in your hair

Read more: Crosby Stills Nash - Marrakesh Express Lyrics | MetroLyrics


	16. Due Rimwards

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter sixteen: The boring bit in between desert and jungle.  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general African region may or may not be getting the treatment here.**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka have crossed the Mountains of the Moon from Klatch into Ymitury. And with extreme reluctance, ended up riding shotgun on the Hippie Trail, asking exactly how much they've got in common with other people of the same age on their Gap Year of backpacking and are noew heading Rimwards. Some incidental information, but not much, gleaned from The Compleat Discworld Atlas. so there's a long interlude back in Ankh-Morpork to cover the boring miles and miles of camel travel with not much happening and our girls yearning for action of some kind. They will soon get it. But not in this chapter, which is just clocking up the miles.  
**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _At the International Hostel for Youth of all Nations, Re'durat, Ymitury._

May 8th, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon.

Dear Johanna.

We are preparing for the next leg of our trek deeper into Howondaland, where hopefully we will be leaving the Klatchian end of the continent behind us and moving in a more Rimwards direction towards Howondaland proper. It does rather seem as if so far we have been moving along rather than Down the continent and have spent seven months travelling without going all that far in the desired Rimwards direction. (Cenotia to Klatch to Ymitury.)

From here there are several possible interesting routes.

We can pass through Laotan and Syrrit which opens up a route to what the Mapps and gazetteers vaguely call "The Kingdoms of Howondaland". This involves crossing the Central Howondalandian Plains, which the guidebooks call "The Prairies" but which to all intents and purposes we would recognise as Savannah and Veldt. This will be a home from Home and achingly familiar to me.

Laotan and Syrrit are described, geographically, as "Sub-Neffian", which is a geographer's term for "place where the desert fails and arid semi-scrub begins". These are, in economic and social terms, "marginal economies" where only a few nomadic and semi-settled people live, making a bare living from sheep, goats, camels and some primary economic activities, ie mines of various sorts. They do not sound especially promising or interesting (although the possibility is there that we could find things of surprise or interest there!) and we do not propose to linger for too long on our way to the Plains. Certainly, no major country considers it worthwhile to base Embassies there, although we are informed that Ankh-Morpork maintains a Consulate which is not fixed but mobile, travelling between the nomadic tribal conferences such as the interestingly-named Whistlestop. Apparently, these are the nearest things both nations have to capital cities, albeit peripatetic ones.

The Central Plains, by long treaty and right of victory in war, **(1)** are the province of the Confederated Red Indian Tribes. As these parallel a similar tribal society in Aceria and the Great Outdoors, it is a mystery to anthropology as to how the Indians got to Howondaland in the first place **.(2)** From what we have read, they seem to have age-old confused legends of a Trail of Tears in a widdershins direction across two continents. Tribes like the Apache will point out it wasn't them who shed the tears along the trail. We are trying to avoid meeting Apaches. I do recall the senior student whose only given name was Miss Starhawk. Even Rivka considers that she was truly a Scary Mary. And she was, by all accounts, only **part** -Apache. You will, of course, have known her better, having taught her.

Rivka also points out that the Indians are the only people on the Disc who have conclusively and decisively beaten we Vondalaanders in battle. Which, in her opinion, makes them extremely Badass. I point out that the General who led our people to defeat was called Rjuster. How a man with a name and an ancestry like that achieved high rank in our Army is anybody's guess.

And we are taught that our defeat was brought about by the Klatchians placing every pressure on us, short of an actual war, to withdraw from the Central Plains. We were at the time not strong enough to withstand a joint Klatchian/Zulu invasion. And that Ankh-Morpork, still smarting at their utter defeat in the War of Independence, cunningly and underhandedly assisted the Indians by sending them an extremely powerful Wizard who foully used magic to confound and defeat our Army.

And yes, I do recall when Ponder took the time to explain to both of us, in a way that was diplomatic, gentle and above all **careful** **,** that this wasn't the complete truth. He even introduced us to the Wizzard involved. (All down to one of those magical accidents you get at the University. Although Ponder speculates about History Monks being involved too.) **(3)**

The Indian tribes, or most of them (Apaches excepted!) are these days relaxed about legitimate travellers, so long as they travel and do not settle permanently. They are careful to enforce this. I understand Lord Vetinari has remarked to the Indian Tribes Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, Chief Spotted Skunk, that this is a happy state of affairs that should be allowed to persist and he sees no reason to seek change. So we have no great fears about travelling among them. Indeed, the Indian peoples permit only two towns on their land, in the sense of permanent buildings populated by a static people. There is the settlement of Sprained Ankle, which functions as a diplomatic and trading centre where Embassies of all the major states of the Disc may be found, and then there is Port Smith-Rhodes on the coast.

I am interested in visiting Port Smith-Rhodes.

I understand Rimwards Howondaland ceded any territorial claim on the Central Plains and it was agreed, during the peace conference, that Fort Smith-Rhodes should be demilitarised and allowed to remain as a sort of Free State allowing the Indian tribes to have a "window on the world". Today it is a sort of Zemphis on the Howondalandian coast, and the two places in fact have a common ethos and an informal "twined town" arrangement.

We will take care there to be vigilant **at all times** , and to go armed and attentively. Besides, our Family still maintains significant interests there and Uncle Charles has a local presence.

After Laotan/Smyrrit, I can see our journey will become very interesting again.

Bekki loves the gifts she received from Miriam and you have written to thank her for her generosity, which took you somewhat by surprise. I'm pleased. And you now have new family pets following Ponder and Bekki returning from Lancre? I'm so pleased his trip to Slice was so productive, from an academical viewpoint, and that HEX is now processing the data. And that Mrs Ogg will be following Bekki's career with interest and is there to give you professional advice on how aspects of her upbringing should be dealt with. This is perhaps advisable. Mrs Ogg, when she visits, will be lodging with Madame Emmanuelle?

I am amused, as was Mrs Ogg, by Madame saying that she intends to die peacefully in bed aged around eighty – the bed belonging to a much younger lover. It is possible they have much in common and have much to talk about.

Mrs Ogg's observation that Lady Assassins and Witches have a lot in common was thought-provoking. That the same fundamental twist in the head is there, and if twisted in one direction makes a Witch, while if twisted in another it makes an Assassin. Through her genetics, Bekki may have both twists at once. Which is something to watch for!

I look forward to meeting the interesting new housepets. I'm sure you can cope. You run a Zoo, after all.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _Interlude: At 18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork._

Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes took a deep breath and allowed her lips to unpurse. Her husband, Professor Ponder Stibbons, relaxed perceptibly. Caught between the conflicting demands of wife and daughter, he really hadn't been sure how this one was going to play out.

Regard Johanna and Ponder in their middle thirties, a settled and comfortable married couple now working out the demands of being two professional people who are managing a household and raising children. Johanna has filled out slightly from the person she was prior to motherhood, but cannot be called "matronly" or in any way "fat". Her hips have irreversibly widened a little after two daughters and her bosom is a little larger, but hard work, good diet and the sort of fitness regime that the Guild of Assassins informally demands of its teaching staff means that she is still both physically fit and somewhat attractive. She can no longer pass for a girl ten years younger – it is obvious she is a mother in her thirties – but maturity is becoming to her. Ponder privately thinks she has never been more beautiful. And motherhood changes women. "Serenity" is probably the wrong word for Johanna, as she has never been serene, and has no intention of starting _now_. But she is certainly content and comfortable in her skin, as the Quirmians say.

Ponder, meanwhile, has filled out a little and is, in fact, uncomfortably aware of the onset of a little middle-aged spread; fellow Wizards have amicably remarked that married life must agree with you, young Stibbons, you're beginning to look like a proper wizard now! Give it another ten years of good regular dinners, eh, Stibbons? Shame you still can't grow a decent beard, but you can't have everything, eh?

And, after scientific investigation of the Slice Phenomenon, after interviewing people and preparing a report, and after taking time to show his daughter around Lancre, a town he first saw many years before and has revisited at irregular intervals, he is home again. The fact the Rail Ways out of Ankh-Morpork now stretch as far as Hot Dang, a logging town some miles away from Lancre Town, means it takes less than a day to travel between both. To Ponder, this beats broomsticks. Johanna, by express command, prohibited him from flying their daughter there. She is concerned about Bekki and broomsticks and doesn't want her daughter getting ideas, for eg about borrowing Ponder's broom from where it lives above the fireplace and going for a joyride. Not _yet_ , anyway.

Ponder's broom is now padlocked to its mountings by a secure chain. You cannot, as Johanna is discovering almost daily, be too careful around Bekki. Who is indeed an adventurous and inquisitive young lady. Her sister Famke, now at the toddling and stumbling stage, also shows clear signs of being independently minded and inquisitive.

The two new family pets, who Johanna has reluctantly accepted will be part of the domestic setup at Eighteen Spa Lane, are currently taking the first steps towards investigating their new environment. Baby animals tend to get love and affection from all around them. Even Claude the family butler has been moved to discreetly pet and stroke them, in a dignified butlerian sort of way. Annaliese the nanny and the other servants were also delighted by them. The house-goblins had grasped that they were pets and not to be viewed, in any way at all, as a food resource. Besides, in a few months time even the hungriest goblin would decide he wasn't _that_ hungry. Bekki is in love with them.

"So there is a breeding farm in Lencre." Johanna said. "Where the farmer end his wife breed pedigree exemples of these creatures, es pert of the Fency."

Even after nearly seventeen years in Ankh-Morpork, Johanna had lost little of her Rimwards Howondalandian accent. In any case, her household was multi-lingual. Even Ponder had learnt to speak a form of Vondalaans. **(4)**

Ponder nodded, slightly shame-faced. He hadn't intended to buy the new pets. But there is one of those iron laws of parenting which operate when a father of a young daughter is witnessing the first tremble of the lower lip, a crestfallen expression, and a hint of a tear in the eye, which express a fear, on the part of said daughter, that Daddy is going to say "no". The result is usually a foregone conclusion. (Mothers are usually made of sterner stuff, possibly remembering a time when they pulled this one on their own fathers.)

"I couldn't say "no", Johanna." Ponder admitted. This was a sort of daughter-to-father magic against which he had no defence. Johanna nodded, understanding.

"Go into my study, Ponder." she told him. "On the bookshelves where I keep my own ecademic texts. Third shelf down, there is a work by the Enkh-Morpork Ailurophiles End Breeders Essociation. It lists pedigree types end breeds. Look under the heading of _Ecerian Maine Coon_. I will wait for you while you do so."

Ponder quickly found the handbook and brought it back. He noted it was divided into four sections.

"Towards the beck, Ponder." Johanna said, with the sort of extreme patience he had learnt to be very wary of.

He quickly moved through the four sections, headed _Domestic Breeds, Semi-Domesticated Breeds, More Feral Breeds_ , and _Only For The Experienced Handler._ **(5)**

"Oh." he said, after a while. He looked to where Bekki was happily engrossed in playing with the kittens. Child and kittens seemed to be mutually in love.

Johanna nodded.

Ponder added "I thought they looked a bit _larger_ than usual."

Johanna relented slightly. She patted his shoulder.

"End when the breeder said to you thet he was prepared to sell you a couple of the kittens cheaply, and he was glad to move them on, es Mrs Ogg comes round end gets _emphetic_ et eny suggestion of the _brick-end-a-seck_ method of disposing of unwanted kittens. Thet these were not _quite_ up to breed stenderd, es the father was a mongrel tomcet with no pedigree. Did this not sound eny little elerm bells in your head?"

Ponder looked worried. Johanna then summed up the salient points concerning the Maine Coon cat. They are big. They come from a part of Aceria where for some reason there were few dogs, and some sort of creature needed to be bred for hunting and guard purposes. This cat had evolved to fill the niche, helped along by selective breeding. The Maine Coon, therefore, could grow to four feet long and nearly two feet tall at the shoulder. Not quite as big as a Ridgeback but appreciably so. Easily the largest domestic cat species on the Disc and bigger than, say, a typical lynx. Needing much food and specialised handling. And training. **(6)**

Oh, and that little detail about a tomcat of no pedigree being either the father or the grandfather. Now think carefully about the nature of cats in Lancre and make an educated guess? _At the very least_ , both these cats are going to be neutered. No argument. I note we have a male and a female. Best done while they are small. We have facilities for such operations at the Zoo.

Bekki smiled. Mummy was going to let her keep the kitties, then.

Johanna turned to Claude, a dignified black man in later middle age.

"Ebout the name, Claude." she said, uncertainly. "No offence is intended."

Her butler smiled a butlerian smile.

"No offence is taken, madam." he reassured her. "I understand the name "coon" is a diminutive of _raccoon,_ a creature found in Aceria who these cats are said to resemble, when fully grown, and indeed who they take pleasure in hunting. There is no confusion with a derogatory term for people with black skins."

"Thenk you, Claude." she said.

"I would suggest Madam should acquire baskets and other accessories, such as ablutions facilities for the new domestic pets, as soon as she can." Claude said, deferentially. "But given your skills and interests, this should be straightforward."

Johanna sighed. It would need some _big_ litter trays. And lots of litter.

"Mummy! I've thought of names!" Bekki said, excited. A little of her mind was reasoning that just in case Mummy changed her mind, it would be a good thing to have names for her kitties. Kitties with names would be harder to dispose of.

"Go on then," Mummy said. She was remembering a time when she had adopted and successfully reared a lion cub **.(7)** She reflected that her daughter took after her, and felt a sort of warm maternal pride.

"From that song you sing. _Belowe pyn en smart_." Bekki said. "This one is Pyn and this one is Smart."

Johanna considered this and smiled. Her daughter was equally fluent in Vondalaans. Or at least a Vondalaans tinged with Phlegmish and Kerrigian.

" _Ja._ Eny mouse or rat intruding on this house end stalking our veldt is indeed promised pain and hurt." she agreed. She put aside the uneasy thought that this might well extend to the human inhabitants and the choice of names might be asking for trouble.

" _Pyn en Smart_ it is, then."

 _And about time we had new pets,_ Johanna thought. _A house is emptier without them. And Mariella was right. This time, something different to Ridgebacks so they start with a new clean slate and are not compared to the ones who were here before. Although they'll grow to much the same size as Ridgies. And I was negotiating for new dogs. Should I still get the puppies, see if they can grow amicably alongside the Maine Coons? If puppies and kittens are socialised together from the beginning, it is possible… and I can re-open the dog-walking rota with School pupils. I'll talk to Gillian about Raven House girls volunteering for a rota. Good for everyone. Especially if they get contact with the cats too._

Johanna wondered about how Mariella and Rivka were faring. She felt her sister and her travelling companion were going to want to move on from Ymitury soon. Apart from undeniably distinctive food and occasional visits to the Pasha, there really wasn't very much there to interest Assassins. Acting as camp counsellors to tourists was, she thought, something they'd very soon want to move on from. The next letters would be interesting, she thought.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch and now in Ymitury._

Hi Johanna!

There wasn't really all that much more to Ymitury after we had the official reception at the Pasha's Palace. (report for Guild attention attached).

We were introduced to the Pasha, a little fat man who twitched a lot, by the Howondalandian Ambassador. I was offered the opportunity to become a concubine. I think that equates to an offer of marriage. I am getting lots of practice in politely and elegantly declining such offers. No such offer was made to Mariella. I suspect if in the future there is a contract on the current Pasha, it might interest an Assassin who was trained by Madame Emanuelle to accept a marriage proposal, or at least one of concubinage, as a method of getting close to the client. It is worth considering.

There is no Cenotian Embassy in this place, although there is a Trade Delegation. A gentleman called Benjamin, who we last met in Cenotia, was present. We caught up on my adventures since, which Benjamin was interested in hearing about, and he asked many perceptive questions.

We will be moving on soon.

Some of our fellow travelers have been moved to ask, out of curiosity, which school Mariella and I lately attended prior to our Gap Year. They sense we are somehow different.

So we told them.

There was much nervousness and people discreetly moving away from us.

As this sort of thing gets back to the Pasha, we are warned, and he is nervous about Assassins, we are not going to linger. We ride for Laotan tomorrow. Another day, another border.

Rivka.

* * *

 _May 11_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. In transit._

Dear Johanna

Laotan is indeed a benighted pit. We do not intend to stay here very long.

The land is fairly rugged and is heaped with the desolate spoil from the tin-mines. Nothing destroys a landscape more than indiscriminate mining by humans, who are not anything like as good at it as Dwarfs.

Incredibly, there is an emigrant community of Llamedosians here, no doubt drawn by the mining. We could swear we are in Pant-y Gyrdl or similar. The Klatchian/Howondalandian night is enlivened by voices raised in local song. Admittedly the song is _Men of Pant-y-Gyrdl_ or else the one about the greyhound or the one about the little saucepan. Very surreal.

Where there are not mines, there are goats and goat-herders, who communicate via whistles. All very strange.

A short letter, as there really isn't very much here to write a longer letter about.

Love to Bekki and Famke

Sister and aunt

Mariella

 _May 15_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. In transit._

Still in bloody Laotan.

 _May 18_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. In transit._

Still in bloody Laotan.

 _May 20_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. In transit._

Still in bloody Laotan. A goat spat at me. The camel spat back, more accurately.

 _May 22_ _nd_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. In transit._

Dear Johanna.

Laotan was a dump. Smyrrit scarcely much better.

Our almost-trusty camels continue to carry us. Rivka thinks as we get nearer to the Plains, it may be wiser to part-exchange them for horses. You can almost get to like camels after a while. Almost. It may almost be a wrench to part with them. Almost. But I agree. Horses might be a better choice. This country, by the way, is a slightly more interesting place than Laotan, but not by very much. And more visually appealing, though not by very much.

When we get to a place where mail may be sent, I will have a parcel to post. It will be a large one, but will still weigh light for Post Office purposes. You will see why when you receive it. There is one interesting fact about this land. You will understand when you open the parcel. It will interest Ponder, I think.

Another week or so will see us at the border with the Great Plains. We intend, as far as is possible, to go straight across, due Rimwards. The next step after the Plains/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt is problematical – to navigate the Rimwards forest, which thickens to true jungle, and if our direction is right, to come out in Smith-Rhodesia. If our direction is wrong, we land in one of the "Kingdoms of Howondaland", which for obvious reasons of ethnicity, nationality, and name, I would prefer to avoid. There is only one country on the other side of the jungle where anyone called Smith-Rhodes is assured of a good welcome. And I freely admit it will be a strange experience. It's funny that with our name, neither you nor I have ever been to Smith-Rhodesia!

But first we have another set of mountains to cross and the Plains/Prairie/Savannah/Hubwards Veldt (and its people) to encounter.

There must be a town somewhere around here. Settlements are depressingly thin on the ground in this country. All we see, from time to time, are the local herdsmen, who for inescapable reasons appear to have their heads in the clouds. The name of the land translates as _Land of the Honest People._ **(8)** So you cannot say you have not been warned.

Apparently, something called the Rug Road, a trading route across the continent, passes through Smyrrit (alternatively Syrrit) but we have yet to see it. There is a depressing lack of long stately caravans, consisting of hundreds of camels and pack-beasts laden with exotic wares – and food other than couscous, rice, dried dates and falafel – coming this way. You'd see something that big from several miles away.

Ah well. Ever onwards.

Love to Bekki and Famke,

Sister and aunt,

Mariella

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

Nope. got nothing on Sub-Saharan Africa that's even remotely Discworld-relevant. In our world much of it was French colonies. But I doubt the Quirmians ever got this far. Or wanted to. Lots of footnotes, though.

 **(1)** Shameless plug: to my story _Rincewind Among the Redskins_ , in which the hapless Wizzard is forced into a situation not unlike Dustin Hoffman.s character in " _ **Little Big Man**_ ".

 **(2)** A peril of the mobile and ever-evolving canonical Discworld. In _**Reaper Man**_ , the Red Indian One-Man-Bucket is introduced as a gag character, parodying the spiritualist mediums' universal belief that Red Indians represent a spiritually evolved Noble Savage who are more than pleased to spend their Afterlives as guides to mediums (or Smalls) such as Mrs Evadne Cake. They apparently have nothing else to do in the Happy Hunting Grounds other than to break off their happy hunting and be benevolent dispensers of Eternal Wisdom. As Mrs Cake discovers, Bucket is anything but. He also bemoans being deprived of his birthright, which would have been to roam the plains of Central Howondaland with his tribe. Which conclusively pointed to Discworld Native "Americans" being in the Discworld "Africa", fighting for space with "Arabs", "Moors", Black Howondalandians, and, as several scattered and tantalising hints suggest, a legacy of colonialism who might be described as "Afrikaaners". This fitted Terry's oft-stated decree that no part of the Discworld should resemble in any way at all any part of North America. But this sort of got chipped away at. With Genua being a sort of Deep South Delta, Tezuma being a sort of Mexico, et c. And at least some of Terry's notes on the Disc were posthumously presented as _**The Compleat Discworld Atlas**_ (although embellished by co-creators). He seems to have relented on the America thing by creating "The Great Outdoors", a place with a suspiciously Wild West/ USA vibe, occupying a hitherto empty void on the Mapp. Which stretches from the Hub to Genua and - joys – fits the place where I tentatively put my Aceria. (originally an Up To Eleven "Canada, Eh" but now expanding to take in Lower Acerian States like, er, Californicatia). And this may have Indians too. And to make it even more fun, the CDA hints at a Holland-like place called "The Neverlands" – a long way away from Sto Kerrig…. A different origin story, ultimately, for Johanna and Mariella. These things are sent to try the hard-working fanfic writer….

 **(3** ) The full story is in _**Rincewind Among The Redskins**_.

 **(4)** Johanna and Mariella were interested in the phenomenon of a native Ankh-Morporkian learning their first language. Usually it was the other way around. They found their language, spoken by an Ankh-Morporkian, developed an interesting accent. Both sisters agreed Ponder was quite good at it, and put it down to a wizard having to, by profession, grasp a lot of languages both quickly and more importantly _accurately_ , for grimoire and spellcasting purposes. But they were in agreement that Ankh-Morporkians just could not get the hang, at all, of the rhotic-R which characterised Vondalaander speech. And the guttural G was a problem too. But he was making a creditable attempt. Even f it sounded strange and jarring.

 **(5)** Read _as You're Asking For Trouble with This One, Matey._ A fifth section involved lots of red ink and double underlinings for emphasis and was headed _Lancre Greebos.  
_

 **(6)** I know. This differs from the official description of the Maine Coon. But hey, Rule of Funny.

 **(7)** it's in _**The Discworld Tarot**_ somewhere.

 **(8)** The literal meaning of the Sub-Saharan country name **Burkino Faso.**


	17. The Whistlestop

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter seventeen: The Happy Hunting Grounds**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. There will be descriptions of Discworld nations and peoples here which in the best Pratchett tradition will be taken Up Past Eleven and which may have odd echoes of places on Earth. I leave it to my readers to make up their own minds as to which parts of the general African region may or may not be getting the treatment here. Or in this case a geographically misplaced tranche of North America which – for very good reasons derived from canon as it was at the time of**_ **Reaper Man** _ **– had to be bunged into the middle of Howondaland. Put it down to quantum, or History Monks, or the Creator getting the blueprint wrong, or a Trail Of Other Peoples' Tears that led whole tribes to migrate from Aceria to Howondaland at some point in the pre-historical time. (Consequence of the Dark War of antiquity?)**_

 _ **Mariella and Rivka were last seen trekking through miles and miles and miles of sand, scrub, and goat-consumed vegetation towards the distant Mountains of the Lesser Celestial Bodies**_ **(1)** _ **which separate sub-Neffian Klatch from the Howondalandian Plains. This is the road-trip equivalent of That Difficult Bit In The Middle of Side Two, where the band are running out of ideas but still need to fill space. Besides, there isn't really much in the**_ **Compleat Discworld Atlas** _ **about Laotan and S(m)yrrit, which had to be crossed to get to more promising places. Such of interest as there is about Smyrrit will be briefly discussed here, and constitutes another of those gifts sent back to Ankh-Morpork to delight a beloved niece. Much to her mother's consternation.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

Dear Johanna

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Klatch and now in Ymitury._

Hi Johanna!

Well, on the eleventh day in either Laotan or Syrrit (the border is blurred and people on either side frankly look, dress and act much the same), we found the fabled Whistlestop, which turns out to be a nexus on the Great Rug Road where caravans stop and the nomadic herders gather to debate matters of import, such as what to charge for the **very special** wool and fabrics they produce, what to do about Ouezzin Coulidoody, who is considered to have been beating his third wife a little bit **too** vigorously, and what their foreign policy should be vis-a-vis international relations with Klatch and Ankh-Morpork with regard to the Muntab question. It is that sort of an informal parliament.

We also discovered, at about this time of year, there is a Rainy Season.

After long weeks of desert and semi-desert, this came as a bit of a surprise. We were just about able to rig a makeshift tent on the highest ground we could find (thank you, Johanna, for your intensive training in these matters during Wilderness Survival Classes!)

And then the rain came down. With much thunder and lightning.

Lots of lightning.

We now understand why an alternative name for this land is Upper Voltage, or Haute Volte. Lower Voltage tends to get less intense thunderstorms. **(2)**

There was nothing to do except check that all metal items were off our bodies and preferably earthed, and to tend to the welfare of our camels, who while not being creatures of rainy climates took it as stoically as camels do. We sought to remain as dry as possible and make the most of it by hanging out our dirtiest and most travel-soiled garments to wash, or at least be rinsed, in the incessant downpour.

The problems then became ones of how to get hot food and how to avoid preventable illnesses in inclement weather. We paid serious attention to sanitation. Our dwindling stick of firewood and kindling was kept as dry as possible. This sort of situation really tests your resolve and I do give earnest thanks to you, Miss Band, the Compte de Yoyo and others who taught us, most thoroughly, to cope with all eventualities. However, we discovered an issue which, perhaps, should be raised with students on the Wilderness Survival courses. When two people are confined to a tent for three days by really severe weather, those two people better **had** be really close friends. I fear your instructional exercise of pairing natural enemies together and telling them they have no choice but to be mutually supportive and work together… well, in a torrential several-days-long rainstorm in the Sub-Nef, there would be lots of informal inhumation. We got through the close confinement by great forbearance, setting up a makeshift game of Assassins' Chess by sketching a board and drawing the pieces on scraps of paper, by sharing our memories of the past seven years, by speculating on how lively a wedding your brother will have to Miss Heidi van Kruger (am I invited?), making a makeshift Word Scramble board and pieces from scraps of paper, and another hastily sketched board reconstructed from memory. We nearly had a falling-out as to whether non-Morporkian words were allowed; Mariella tried to get " _leeuloop"_ on a triple word score by adding "leeu" to "loop", arguing this is a ritual dance that by iron convention must be performed at a Vondalaander wedding **(3),** even though she thinks it's a bit "zef". " _ **Zef**_ " on a triple letter score. I ask you. Rather than fight, I suggested for every Vondalaans word that Mariella claims has been absorbed into local Morporkian, I can claim likewise for a Cenotian one. Her _"zef"_ allowed me to add _"-tig",_ for instance. _Zeftig, zaftig_ or _zoftig_ , a word that I explained adequately describes our friend Miriam bint-Alhazred, a well-built comfortable woman of what might kindly be described as voluptuousness, just this side of running to fat. Satisfactory, on a double word score. But how near even close friends can come to falling out, when confined like this. This could be mentioned as a cautionary tale when teaching students? Also, experience has now taught us that there must be distractions, diversions to be brought out to occupy the mind when this sort of enforced confinement is forced on you by circumstances. We are looking to get a pack of cards, for instance, for diversions like _vingt-et-un_ or even friendly hands of Cripple Mr Onion. (Madame Emmanuelle taught her girls thoroughly. Thank her for us.)

Ook, om tyd om te slaag, Mariella is onderrig my om Vondalaans te praat. Is my spelling correct? Your language is not too difficult in principle, as it has one foot in Morporkian and another in Überwaldean. The principles of assembling a sentence are similar and a surprising amount of the vocabulary is either familiar, or can be worked out with a little thought. " _Praat_ ", for instance, has its Morporkian clothes on in the word "prattle". And it is most amusing the word for "also" is " _ook_ ". I think of the Librarian, here, who says the word "also", or seemingly so, all the time.

Mariella considers this fair exchange, as I taught her enough Cenotian to get by in my country. Also, being able to understand your language when it is spoken all around me, and nobody expects the Cenotian girl to comprehend what may not be meant for her ears, could confer an advantage.

Speaking your language – well, I should be able to get the excessively rolled "R" with practice, but those back-of-the-throat guttural "G" sounds **...(4).** I'm tempted to say "worse than Dwarfish"…

We were taught once, in history, of a battle centuries ago in Sto Kerrig, where an ancestor of Lord Rust ordered the polders to be broken in a very low-lying battlefield. He reasoned that if the dykes were broken and the area flooded, he'd have an advantage, as the enemy wouldn't be able to move for all the mud.

Well, this place could be likened to, what was it called in Kerrigian, or was it Phglemish, _Paeschendahle,_ but on a wet rainy day…

After three days we realised a settlement of tents and shelters was building up around us. This surprised us. It had not been there the day before. We explored this phenomenon (having by now been reduced to cold food – even camel dung could not be dried for fire-making, as it had been in the desert. Here, in a rainstorm? _Abi gezundt!)_ Our iron rations of flatbread, yoghurt and falafel were not nearly enough and we were beginning to get hungry. Neither of our camels were female, which precluded the option of milking them. However, we did have chocolate. This kept us sane. Always make room for chocolate in your pack, you taught us. Thank you.

Fortunately we were able to barter for other things with those who were arriving, and a friendly neighbour directed us to a large cart that had turned up amidst much anticipation. There was a cooking smell, of sorts, and it was most enticing after days of cold half-rations. A large covered awning had been erected. We had discovered the famed Whistlestop Café, setting up to service the arriving caravans. According to the genial and somewhat _familiar_ proprietor, there was a gap in the market about halfway along the Rug Road, miss, for somewhere to service all the camels and horses, sort of a rest stop, miss, a Rug Road Service Station where a weary traveller could not only put his head down, he could get the camels serviced with water and fodder and count on a square deal for a decent dinner, maybe even rent a tent or a yurt for the night if he ain't got none, although from his point of view most travellers sort of come ready equipped, like your good selves, so not much of a market there. But if you two ladies, look as though you both know what you're doing, want to sort of upgrade, I got a good selection of tents, yurts, awnings, marquees, sort of thing on one of the carts here, can do you part-exchange, say ten Ankh-Morpork dollars or forty-five Klatchian dinars and seventy piasters, and that's tyin' meself to a post with salt smeared over the soles of me feet for the goats to lick?

We settled for a hot meal of fried green tomatoes. Green tomatoes. Fried. In some places a delicacy but here you just got green tomatoes. Fried. With the sort of meat coming in thin greasy slices off one of those nameless things rotating on a spit and served in flatbread. But we were too hungry to care and hot food after two days without was irresistible. And at least, after some prompting on our parts, the food was served hot enough to kill any perils that might be lurking in it.

And so we met Bastinado Meself With Honey-And-Salt Coulidibliy, proud owner and proprietor of the Whistlestop Café, where people living on short rations after weeks or months on the Rug Road lower their expectations accordingly.

It helped that Bastinado Meself With Honey-And-Salt Coulidibliy was having problems with keeping his cooking range adequately lit, complaining that running the stoves in this rain was a bit of a bugger, miss, pardon his Morporkian. We felt we could help there. By the way, Johanna, these "Bombay lights" are a marvel – a match that will light however fierce the weather and will not go out. You say a traveller from the Roundworld brought them with him and the Guild copied the technology? They have been marvellous in this weather. Please can you send more, as I fear we will run out? Some of those clever "hex blocks" you say the same traveller knew about would be wonderful too **.(5).** Like super-concentrated kindling in a little white waxy block looking like soap and smelling like lamp-oil. Apparently a useful purpose for that otherwise useless black tarry goo, that bubbles out of the ground in parts of Klatch. And a useful thing for Alchemists, who are learning how to refine it without burning down their labs too often.

Mr Coulidibliy was most impressed and is giving us heavily discounted meals. We have said – no offence, but may we use your ranges to cook our own food for ourselves?

A funny thing happened after we ate some locally-haggled-for mutton. In defiance of probability, we actually found ourselves feeling lighter afterwards. Many people were watching with inscrutable interest as we walked, or rather floated, back to our tent. The sensation of floating was indefinable, but we noticed our feet were barely touching the ground. Mariella nudged me.

"That dog." she said, indicating a canine of the local K'holli breed, used for sheep-herding. "It's walking over muddy ground and puddles. It should be splashing and leaving heavy footprints. But it's hardly leaving a trace."

I looked down. Neither were mine. Or Mariella's.

We agreed this was a mystery, but were too tired and well-fed to care.

Indeed, that night, warmed and well fed, we felt as if we were sleeping on feather beds.

Now the light, such as it is, is fading here in the middle of this strange smelly and noisy temporary city. It is becoming too dark to write.

Rivka.

* * *

Dear Johanna.

It took a perplexingly long time to work out the little mystery. Getting hot food for the first time in days must have dulled our senses.

We took advantage of the bustle and activity to discover the souk, having first taken care to set Devices in our camp that would seek to deter theft. (where there are people, there are generally thieves.)

This is another of those places that seems to have depressing ideas about the status of women, by the way. Although as were are quite evidently foreign women, and foreign women who carry weapons, we appear to have been spared the worst of the possible censure. As mentioned before, a gift is attached. It is an example of local carpet-weaving and would be more of interest to Ponder, as well as offering him an alternative flying method to the broomstick that may prove to be more comfortable. I haggled for this in the makeshift bazaar, with Rivka's help, and later on we checked it thoroughly for the sort of homing device that we are told unscrupulous carpet dealers use – once the deal is transacted and the money safely received, the carpet will fly home and the dealer can then deny all knowledge, give it a dye job and new tassels in a different colour, then sell it to the next unsuspecting mark. Apparently the previous owner was an elderly lady who only used it to go to the Temple on a Friday. (Hmmm…)

We located the Ankh-Morpork Consulate here. It operates from the back of a yurt parked in the informal Diplomatic Compound. The consul is only part-time, and works in the wool and fabrics export-import business; he was the one who warned us about homing devices and what to look for if considering buying a carpet. He even gave us the names of reliable dealers. And, joys, now the Whistlestop is in session, there will soon be a Pegasus, generally only a low-priority three-times-a-year visit. As this place is low on the priority list, it will be one of the younger and newer pilots in the Service rather than Olga or Irena, but the consul feels she can be prevailed upon to carry our despatches back to the City. Of course, it is possible our kindly old Uncle Havelock will also read this, as they are going back via a Palace channel.

Cenotia also has a consul here. He also works in the textile trade and is informally known as Natty the Schmatter. He and Mrs Schmatter are most hospitable and have taken Rivka in as if she were a long-estranged daughter. We were pleased to be invited to a Sabbath-eve meal with them, which involves much covering of heads, ceremonial lighting of candles, sonorous prayer, and a very nice dinner involving the inevitable chicken soup with matzos.

Rivka was then given a long _let-me-be-your-Yenta-for-tonight_ pep talk from Mrs Schmatter, concerning expectations of marriage and finding a nice young Cenotian boy ideally in a profession, followed by home and children, to make your dear mother happy and content in her old age. Our own boy Aaron, never writes home, hardly visits, working across the continent in Port-Smith-Rhodes where he's doing well in export-import, but still not married, if you're going there I'll give you his address, tell him to write to his mother more often, I get worried that he hardly writes? Went to college, got an ology, but can't write to his mother. It wouldn't hurt him to pick up a pen now and again. Gevalt.

Rivka took this graciously. I believe she appreciated the comfort of familiar voices and the little rituals of her home.

"Yenta Goldberg wrote." Natty said, thoughtfully. "Said somebody like you might be in the area as you were travelling, and asked to be kept informed. She said to remind her little Schmoopie of her last chat with you, and that she hasn't forgotten."

"We've got to move on, Mariella." Rivka said later, with some urgency.

She wrapped herself up in one of the goatskin jackets, long three-quarter length with fur trim and lining, _never mind the quality, feel the width_ , that Natty had sold us both at wholesale rates. They smell of goat and are quite heavy, but are wonderfully warm and keep the rain out. We will, I think, be sleeping in them tonight. Now we are moving on from a desert – and the rain reminds us of this every day – we need warmer clothing.

Oh, we also saw why there is little crime here. The local people have a zero tolerance policy which involves tying somebody barefoot to the ground and rubbing salt and honey into the soles of their feet. Elsewhere similar things are done as part an allegedly benign aromatherapy regime. Here it is done to allow goats something tasty to lick. A goat's tongue is rough; people do not offend twice. There is also the bastinado, a more serious sanction involving the soles of the feet and a supple, thin, cane. With no formal Watch, people must be self-policing. Not nice to witness, though.

And we discovered the thing about K'holli dogs and the local sheep. It was fascinating to watch a herd of the local sheep coming in to land, from where they had been on mountain pasture, escorted by the very capable K'hollis.

Rivka blinked and nudged me.

"Are sheep meant to do that?" she asked.

It was a new one on me too. And Johanna, if you are looking for new dogs… perhaps give K'hollis a miss, as Walkies might get interesting.

It's obvious when you think about it. The wool for flying carpets has to come from somewhere. And sheep in normal circumstances are mountain creatures capable of getting everywhere, to places you would not believe they could get to, in search of pasture. Now and again sheep fall off mountainsides and splat. But what if one day a sheep, falling off a mountain in Syrrit, faced with the biological imperative of continuing to live, managed to avoid hitting the ground? And lived to mate, and have lambs, who inherited the knack for falling off mountainsides and not impacting with a splat? And as you tell us in Zoology lessons, useful skills are passed on down the generations of animals as they evolve, and improve as conditions dictate, and become commonplace abilities.

Thus the flying sheep of Syrrit, _les moutons voulants_.

And sheepdogs fed on a diet of mutton from superfluous animals – well, it had to happen. As we found out having eaten this meat ourselves, although not to the degree necessary for being a Syrritian shepherd.

We were captivated to witness a unique shepherding display, a contest of skill and ability for both dogs and shepherds. One man and his dog, indeed. Unforgettable.

The Pegasus pilot who will deliver our latest reports is Nottie, Nottie Garlick from Lancre. Technically a princess of the House of Verence, but, as she points out, witches take their mother's name, even if their father is a King. Kingship is trumped by Witchcraft. (Bekki will therefore, if she takes training in Lancre, be Rebecka Smith-Rhodes)

It was good to see her and we took lunch together. In her lesser position (after that of Witch) where she is Crown Princess of Lancre, she is also bedeviled by parents hinting at marriage, in this case her father. Nottie complains that while Lancre Castle is by no means knee-deep in visiting hopeful Princes from various places, there always seem to be at least one hanging about the place, whose parents have sent him on a Quest to check out the unmarried daughter of the King of Lancre. Her father is thinking in terms of a dynastic marriage and alliance through ties of kinship, et c, with another kingdom somewhere else.

"He thinks like that." she said. "Can't stop him. Mum is very clear that anyone dropping round has to be _human_ , though, after the bother they had with vampires. Mrs Ogg suggests I think of a few Quests for them to go on to prove their suitability for me. Make 'em hard enough, she says, and it thins the buggers out a little. Dim princes make good fertilizer, she says."

Nottie looked down at her fairly flat chest, a legacy of her mother, apparently.

"One cheeky bugger said he had been led to believe I had huge _…. tracts of land._ I told him we do, but this is Lancre, they're mainly vertical. Wanted to lead him to the highest tower and send him on a Quest, straight out of the window,"

She wonders if the flying sheep might somehow be utilized by human pilots. She has mentioned this to Irena and Olga. But the Syrittians defend their sheep fiercely and prevent export. Her flight Feegle, Big Tam, is being watched by unfriendly eyes who are aware of the reputation of Nac Mac Feegle around sheep. He is speculating on four Feegle, each mounted on a tamed buzzard, doing yon formation flying stuff, one under each leg, eye, and all grabbing hold at once. He thinks if he got four good lads together who can co-operate, it's worth doing for the principle of the thing. Never been done before. To him, stealing one of these sheep represents a kind of career achievement, a pinnacle of ambition.

And eventually we concluded trading in our camels for two good horses and two pack-mules for our luggage. The mules have already inherited the names of _Jou Bliksem_ and _Ben-Sharmata_. It is odd to be riding a horse again. You get so used to camels.

Now the rain is easing, and two days' ride should see us to the top of the Mountains of the Lesser Celestial Phenomena, with the Plains in front of us.

Love to you, Ponder, Bekki, Famke, to Heidi and Danie (remind her there is still time to back out, and run a **long long** way away!). And to the cats Pyn en Smart, of course. And on top of Maine Coons you intend to get two Boerboel puppies? Perhaps the two forces, the elemental power of cat and dog in its most emphatic form, will cancel each other out. But go any larger with regard to pets, and they'd be Zoo exhibits. Then again, you did introduce me to Klaarenz, your first "pet" in Ankh-Morpork… I'm sure you will cope. You wouldn't be you if you didn't have a challenge. Must close, as Nottie needs to get airborne soon for the flight Home. Never keep a witch waiting.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

And several days later.

The two travellers paused at the top of a high mountain pass and looked out. A flat largely green expanse stretched down below them in the plain, disappearing into a green haze on the far horizon. For two people habituated to shades of sand and brown for so long, the sight of so much verdant green was inspiring and almost alien. Here and there, there was the line of a river. What might have been thin strands of cooking fire rose in one or two places, but few, and very far between. They looked down at the green, the marvellous green, several thousand feet below.

"Wow!" said Mariella.

"Oi _vey_!" said Rivka. They watched and looked for quite some time. Then, unhurriedly, nudged their horses into forward movement. The pack mules brayed, and were tugged into following.

The adventurers set off down the trail into Howondaland proper, leaving Klatch behind.

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Well, there are the Mountains of the Sun which rise, proud and majestic. Then there are the slightly less imposing Mountains of the Moon. Then you need a _third_ mountain range. With Discworld literal-mindedness….

 **(2)** finally pulling in some useful stuff about sub-Saharan belt countries in Africa. Burkino Faso was formerly known as – yes – Upper and Lower Volta, in French colonial days. Too good to waste. And the rainy season sets in around May. The country has low education and literacy rates and there is a fairly illiberal social attitude towards the status of women and girls.

 **(3)** the " _leeuloop",_ or "lion-walk". This adds a new dimension of horror to the cultural phenomenon known as "line-dancing", or in this local adaptation, "lion-dancing". The South African version is, if I get the inference right given my imperfect understanding of Afrikaans, popular at weddings and family gatherings, or was, and may still be. There's a video of a song by Afrikaaner performer Robbie Wessels that captures the full unedifying horror of being stuck at an Afrikaaner wedding and having nowhere to escape to when the call goes up to _"voer die_ _Leeuloop"._ "Zef" is Saffie slang that translates, roughly, as "uncultured", "uncontaminated by classiness", and analogous to British slang "chav". _"abi gezundt"_ is Yiddish and can loosely be placed in the same general continuum as "Oi vey!" or "my life, already!" _"Gezundt"_ is probably worth quite a few points if dropped into the right place on a Scrabble board, if allowed by locally agreed rules.

 **(4)** Pretty much my own experience trying to learn Afrikaans, and to a lesser extent, Dutch. Apparently common for native-English speakers not used to rhoticity.

 **(5)** I know. I know. A reference to the long-stuck _**Slipping Between Worlds**_ in which British Army tricks and technology find a way to the Disc, some of which is actually thought desirable, and the Patrician gives consent for it to be copied by the Assassins. Vetinari did expressly stipulate "Almost everything. Except, and I trust I make myself abundantly clear here, for the _**gonnes**_." Bombay lights are a sort of match which is seven-eighths head and one-eighth stick. They burn with an insistent hot flame for quite a lot longer and before going out, can start a very nice and welcome cooking fire. Hex blocks are a sort of solid concentrated fuel akin to firelighters.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 _ **About Laotan and the "Whistlestop"**_ **– extracts from a PM to an interested reader that explained where the cryptic reference came from.**

 **To explain: my primary reference source throughout has been** _ **The Compleat Discworld Atlas**_ **, a posthumous work attributed to Terry, but with contributions by Bernard Pearson, Rob Willlams, Stephen Briggs, and perhaps by Rhianna Pratchett. This starts with such descriptions and references to nations around the Disc as there are in canon, expands on them, and adds a few "bonus countries" never before referenced, like the Discworld analogue of the USA (caught in between the Wild West and mass immigration via Ellis Island, say 1840 - 1910) and a country with a lot of Holland-like inferences which is nowhere near Sto Kerrig.**

 **(Despite Terry's request that his unformed notes, glimpses, pool of ideas and references and outlines for unstarted novels, et c, be deleted on his death so that no hopeful university postgrad had the material to do a literary PhD on him,** _ **somebody**_ **seems to have filleted out a fair amount of authentic and genuine Terry Pratchett for this work. Well - inevitable, isn't it? after all, JRR Tolkein published more Middle Earth after his death than he did before.)**

 **The problem is - the CDA is diluted with a lot of less convincing stuff that reads like various levels of competence in fanfic, some good, some not so good, and some unconvincing. Under Laotan, there's a contrived and laboured discourse as to how the local tribesmen use whistles to communicate. Which doesn't really read as if Terry wrote it. They apparently all get together two or three times a year for a sort of nomadic parliament called the Whistlestop, the assortment of tents and carts and livestock pens acting as the nearest thing they have to a capital city. No doubt such Embassies and Consulates as there are in Laotan/Syrrit are also mobile (probably acting out of the back of carts, which makes stacking those little gold-wrapped chocolates just so on the silver salver a little hazardous) and tag on here, to be international representation to whichever goat-herder gets to be the nearest thing to President for the next few months. I wasn't sure how to use this in the tale, so just threw in the one sideways reference. But after a bit more patient digging about places like Mali and Burkina Faso – parts of Africa that are obscure to just about everyone – I think I pulled in a few useful cultural ideas. So we're still Hubwards of the mountains, for most of this one, on the Klatchian side.**


	18. A Bright Golden Haze on the Meadow

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter eighteen: Home on the Range**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **We are on the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. It is high summer, June - July.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

Dear Johanna

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and now in the Great Plains._

Hi Johanna!

The mountains, rocky and rugged, are a long way behind us and we are on the Prairie. Apparently, Far Überwald and Zlobenia have something similar extending through them and a long way into Aceria, which they call The Steppe. Natasha Romanoff once said to me that the sensation of feeling very small under a huge sky with lots and lots of steppe extending in every direction is something that has in the past intimidated invaders, and she thought this is what makes Cossacks sing melancholy songs and reach for the vodka bottle. I can perceive what she means, now. For some weeks now the Rocky Mountains have been a memory. It is generally flat here, with some minor undulation and the occasional bluff or heights on a riverbank.

Interactions with other humans have been few – we have hardly seen anyone – and now and again we have seen Indian families or clans on the move, in the distance. They are aware of us and we of them, but we leave each other at peace. Some riders kept station with us for a while, coming no closer than a few hundred yards, but did not approach closer, eventually riding off. We gain the impression the local people appreciate being left in peace and do not actively seek outside company. We are left to our own devices and have been hunting and trapping our food, generally small prey animals, on one occasion a smallish deer. Doctor Bellamy's teaching on identifying edible plants and berries is also appreciated.

We have seen a herd of the local feral buffalo in the distance – which is where we would prefer them to be, frankly. They are massive animals and several thousand of them – well, you do not want to be in their way if they stampede. On this beautiful morning, where we had a pleasant feeling everything was right with the world and nothing threatened (apart, possibly, from the buffalo) we are following the path they have trampled; but at a distance, as the grass here grows remarkably high. We agree perhaps an elephant could see over the top when passing through it. Where it hasn't been trampled or eaten by buffalo. Also, their passage panics smaller animals. Good for selectively hungry travellers with crossbows and a very accurately directed lance. (we are retrieving any bolts we fire for re-use, as good practice dictates, although Miriam saw to it we left Klatch with lots of reloads).

We can see where we are going and all we need avoid, when setting camp at night, is the copious evidence that a lot of large ruminant animals have previously passed this way. The downside is that this draws in lots of flies, a pest in this high hot summer. We are wearing nets and veils against this. Fine Klatchian mesh does not significantly impede visibility.

Mariella thinks that my proficiency in your language can be improved if she teaches me some of the songs. I agree with her that it's a pleasant way to get to grips with the rhythms, cadences and pronunciation of _Vondalaans._ And ballads like the _**De La Rey**_ song are certainly pleasant, get into your ears, and stay there. Also the very wickedly funny one about Auntie Tina which I suspect is not to be sung in front of children. Nor indeed in front of Auntie Friejda, who would be shocked. (Mariella has sometimes altered the chorus to sing of _Tannie Friejda van der G_. I think this is in playful jest and she does love her aunt. Who is definitely, as I understand it, not a "zef", does not have negotiable morals, and would be most offended at the implication.)

But I would question the wisdom of singing songs in _Vondalaans_ in a country where, over a century ago, an army rode in with the intention of conquering the place, who would have sung in this language on the march. That is, if anyone with a long memory were near enough to hear.

Especially since the Army sent into this land was soundly defeated, and then had to fight a long retreat back to what was then Fort Smith-Rhodes on the coast.

Mariella wonders if we are anywhere near the battlefields. She says she'd like to see them. I asked if you had family who fought and died here. She says not, as Sir Cecil had the sense to stay out of that one and ensured none of his sons went with the ill-fated expeditionary force, intended to pacify and conquer this land. Your great ancestor, she said, knew to stop at Smith-Rhodesia, and not to push his luck any further Hubwards. Which sounds like a very Smith-Rhodes sort of thing to do. Being aware of **exactly** where you are likely to run out of luck, and not to go there.

And then I learnt the anthem sung at Llamedosian Rules fifteen-a-side games. This too settles in the ear like some sort of contagious worm. And I wonder where Mariella learnt songs like this.

We rode on singing

 _Bokke moet nie worry oor die ref nie!_

 _Bokke moet nie worry oor die speech nie! …_

in all its permutations. And then she taught me the _Leeuloop_ song. With all the words. I wonder if I'm going native. Still, there could be a worse way to pass a journey. And right now, oddly enough, I would inhume somebody for a potato. It's strange how after a while without, the simplest things become cravings.

Mariella agrees and says she understands Professor Rincewind a bit better now. (That strange stretched-out looking fellow with the haunted eyes who is a friend of Ponder's.) Perhaps it is the case that somewhere in this country, potatoes grow wild. They originated somewhere in a place like this in antiquity, she remembers Doctor Bellamy saying, and the earliest explorers brought them back to the Central Continent **.(1)** We are hopefully looking out. After Cenotia, I now know what a potato plant looks like. We grew enough of them there. The delicate tiny flowers in variegated pastel colours, and the distinctive dark green leaf, betraying the luscious tuber to be found under ground… thoughts of blintze, latkes and knish are continually intruding on my mind. And levivot. And krupnik. And kugels. Even and especially chips. (We have salt and vinegar in the packs. Salt may become a concern. In this heat it is possible to sweat a lot, and we both remember Matron Igorina lecturing on what she calls electrolyte balance, or in plain Morporkian, when exerting oneself in hot places one must replace the salt which is sweated out. Or things happen. The salt we obtained in Ymitury is still there, but diminishing.)

But for now, we ride on. There is higher ground appearing in the distance, surprisingly dark hills. We have found a stream to water the horses and mules and have taken the opportunity to refill every waterskin and our water bottles. It can be a long ride between watersources.

The land is rising and undulating more with a gentle, not unattractive, vista of rolling slopes and occasional minor valleys and gullies. There are some trees, in isolated straggling copses, breaking up the slopes. A trail meanders off, beaten flatter in the long grass, suggesting this is used appreciably often by people or animals. The obvious path, or roadway, meanders lazily, following a path around the contour of a hill. It appears to lead to the shimmer and heat-haze and deeper lusher green, suggesting a river. Higher grass rises above the trail. You can hide an army in there, I said to Mariella. She shrugged.

"Yes. You could, couldn't you?"

She does not elaborate on this.

Some small isolated steeper hills, Mariella calls them _kopjes_ , rise here and there: the soil is thinner, the appearance is browner, sandier and rockier with less vegetation which has a sickly bleached and brown look. She once rode off to investigate one. She didn't tell me what she was looking for, but apparently found nothing. I am reminded that your family fortune (or at least that in the keeping of your Uncle Charles and his side of the family) was founded on the great Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes spotting strange disregarded yellowish rock and mineral stones in the Kimberley region, scorned for farming and therefore cheap land to buy. Maybe this ability runs down the family and re-emerges periodically.

There appear to be remarkably few actual people in such a big country under such an open sky. Perhaps we are approaching what passes for a population centre, a place of pilgrimage, religious significance, perhaps. Mariella and I consider it will be interesting to attempt to interact with the people.

And we rode on. I have a sensation something is about to happen. Do the Pegasii fly over here on their way Rimwards? After all, Olga, Irena and Nottie and the others know roughly what direction we were taking out of Syrrit. But locating us under these huge skies would be like searching for a needle in the proverbial haystack. Especially when the stuff that eventually becomes hay grows high enough, in places, to conceal an elephant up to its eyes. (We found wild corn, by the way. Doctor Bellamy's teaching was thorough.)

If we can get this back to you (post is collected at Sprained Ankle, where we plan to visit) and if any of the Pegasus flyers do come looking for us, ask them to bring a pound or two of salt? Apart from that we are self-sufficient still. (potatoes would be nice, though).

Love

Rivka

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

I am writing this during our evening rest stop on a kopjie in hillier country. We chose the summit of a kopjie as it offers visibility in all directions over the ground around is and is easily defensible. I managed to ride down and cleanly lance a small deer not unlike a muntje, and Rivka is cleaning and preparing it for the spit. Game is plentiful here, although I would hesitate before taking on one of the huge wooly-fleeced local buffalo. They are the size and general demeanour of bewildebeeste, although possibly not so bewildered and I suspect would have definite opinions to express concerning being hunted, killed and eaten. We are carefully respectful of them. It would take organization and ingenuity to capture any for the Zoo, I think. (please do not even ask!)

For diversion, I may take the imp out to see if - carefully – I can get iconographs of a family group, dominant male, several females, and calves. These might interest you.

I am – carefully and sparingly – experimenting with using some of our salt reserves to dry such meat as we cannot immediately eat, to preserve it as biltong. Very carefully using the most naturally salty parts of the carcass, and during our rest stops, hanging it on a frame in the heat of the sun, keeping it covered with a mesh of Klatchian muslin so as to exclude flies. Rivka has suggested smoking it over a fire.

This reminds me of our ancestors doing similar things out of necessity during the Boortrek from the coast to the hinterland, when Howondaland was new and unexplored. They say you should get in touch with your history, after all. And right now, I am feeling like a Boortrekker. All it needs is a Boortrekkiewagen!

And that is the odd thing. The trail we are following has faint signs, on the hard-packed earth, that a wheeled wagon passed this way, possibly six months even to a year ago. There are faint hints of ruts in the earth, carved by wheels.

 _Deur ons vêr verlate vlaktes_

 _Met die kreun van ossewa._

 _Ruis die stem van ons geliefde,_

 _Van ons land, Hovondalaand!_

As the National Anthem (the official one) says **(2).**

Somebody's creaking wagon has cut its trails into the earth here. While I wasn't looking for it – I had suspicions and was looking for other very old clues – I found a long-dead cooking fire on the slopes of a kopjie near here. I reasoned it might be Indians, and thought nothing of it. The sign was months old, after all. And then I started picking up the wagon trail. A single wagon, maybe, some months ago. But a wagon nonetheless. Well, whoever it was is long gone. But a mystery, as we have so far not observed Indians using wheeled wagons. They prefer the _travois_ , a triangular frame dragged behind a horse, that leaves its own distinctive marks on the earth.

This place reeks of something. I feel in touch with our history here, in a way the historians tell you can happen when a place resonates. I have a suspicion, but I'm not sure if it is a correct one. It might just be wishful thinking. I am trying to remember what I was taught, so long ago at First School. And I suspect that was tinged with wishful thinking, selective selection of facts and skipped over inconvenient realities to present the sort of picture the Staadt would like its children to see. Miss Band said to beware of this during her History lessons. That history is coloured by the perceptions and the biases of those who write it and factors other than disinterested and objective presentation of events become more important.

And I remember that trip to Scrote shortly after Bekki was born, to meet the historian Mr Dunham-Massey who has collated the earliest history of our family. That was a lesson. In how reality and the official story may overlap but not be similar at all.

I feel this place, in the central plains of Howondaland, might be a history lesson too. Tomorrow, I will look for proof. I will take the imp.

Dinner is apparently ready. Problem with diet here: lots of meat, we are not lacking for meat, but running out of rice, couscous, et c, and local vegetables are problematic and take much finding. I suspect this will be a binding diet.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

Dear Johanna

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and now in the Great Plains._

 _June 25_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon._

Hi Johanna!

Today was most interesting. Mariella says it is the anniversary of an event remembered today in your homeland. Maybe that was significant and on this day we were meant to find what we did, if only through what Ponder called "narrative causality". Narravitium maybe exists under these lands in appreciable quantities. Apparently there is definitely gold, maybe even diamonds, here, under these Black Hills.

But the local people are _really definite_ about leaving it alone. Even Dwarfs visiting these lands were persuaded, forcibly, from staying and sinking mines. This says much for their determination to leave their land unspoilt.

The Indians are told how rich they could be if they allowed mining. Their Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, Chief Spotted Skunk laid down their point of view when he said "Why? We have everything we need. We're rich enough, thanks." (Lord Vetinari, by all accounts, nodded agreement, and said this was a most understandable point of view and that he would not press the point.)

And when a near-neighbour with territorial ambitions sent in an army with the intention of annexation and grabbing the mineral resources before, say, the Klatchians did, they were sent packing in an ignominious defeat. The site of that crucial battle has hardly been touched in over a century since, and while the Indians know, there is some debate among the defeated side as to where it actually **was**. Specific memories have grown hazy, and I have a suspicion the losing side prefers to gloss over the fact they were conclusively defeated in detail by a mere "coloured" race.

Until today.

Mariella and I rode on down the winding trail, with the higher ground rising to our right, grass and vegetation on the slope above us being thick and rising to a height of five or six feet. The ground descending gently to our right also saw growth rising to an appreciable height.

Mariella seemed intent and excited, pausing frequently to take in the details of her surroundings.

I heard her mutter

"Any General leading a cavalry regiment along here must have been a complete scheisskop bliksem. Six hundred men who could only ride three abreast. And ample room on either side to conceal many men who could spring an ambush when they chose. Ag!" 3 **(3)**

I was starting to have a suspicion.

Then she signaled a halt, where a natural defile, almost a crevasse, opened up to the left of the trail. She got off her horse and began scouting the ground, looking, searching, with great intent.

"What's up?" I asked. "What are you looking for?"

"Just a feeling." she said. "Something's here. In this spot." she told me to keep watch, then climbed down into the almost-ravine. I waited, listening to her scratching and moving just out of sight. Then she made a little gasp of satisfaction. I waited for her to scramble up to the top again.

"What did you find?" I asked, dismounting. Our horses and mules took advantage of the halt to graze. Feeding the animals is not a problem here either. Lots of long grass. Everywhere.

Mariella opened a dusty palm. What she had found was made of metal, a long roughly rectangular strip with rounded corners, in some soft base metal. Letters were impressed on it and there was a scrap of chain.

" _Militêre etikette_ _."_ she said. "Dog-tags. Nearly missed them till I stood on them. Scraped some of the dirt off. Saw the metal gleam."

She carefully cleaned more of the packed dirt off the metal till we could read a number and a name.

"Marius van Grootte. Ionian."

Mariella took a deep breath.

"I wondered. This confirms it. I'm not the first Vondalaander who came this way. And I think I need a spade. And a blanket. To wrap things."

"Can I help?" I asked. She shook her head.

"Please watch the horses. I think we may not be totally alone here, though I could be wrong. I'll come back."

I watched the undergrowth on both sides, carefully, for signs of un-natural movement. I too had a feeling somebody else was out there. Down below I heard the scrape of a spade. This continued, intermittently, for some time. Then she returned, carrying things wrapped in the blanket.

"I believe I have found Marius van Grootte." she said. "Or all of him as there was to find. The bones were scattered and partly buried, as you might expect. He seemed to be the only one down there."

She opened the blanket, with gentle reverence. There was a skull, part of a torso, and a long leg bone, a femur.

"Get the iconograph." she said. "When I arrive Home, I must speak to people at the Bureau of Defence. Make a formal report."

The iconograph imp was interested.

"One of me brothers works for the City Watch." he said. "Before we lost touch and I got sold to this bloke in Cenotia, he said he does a lot of this sort of stuff. Though the bodies he does generally has more meat on them."

"Just take the picture." Mariella said.

We studied the bones, forensically, as Matron Igorina taught us. It helped us to focus. To be objective.

"Evidence of stab wounds to the chest." I said. "Deep hacks to the ribs consistent with stabbing. Odd wounds to the skull, though."

"Knife scars in the bone of the skull. Running all the way round above the eye sockets and where the ears would have been." Mariella remarked. "This poor fellow was scalped."

She went down the gully again to take an iconograph of where the body had been found. Coming up, she showed me some loose pieces of rusted metal, possibly once belt buckles and attachments on military webbing that had long since disintegrated. She bagged these with the dog-tags.

Then we moved on.

"We need to find a good place to bury him." she said, taking up the shrouded bones.

There was no point in looking for other remains of bodies in the tangled long grass. We felt there would be no point: Marius was one who had been overlooked after the battle. The Indians had said they tended to the fallen after the battle according to their own customs. When the trail opened up into a sort of wider plateau, we searched and located what looked like a likely place. Some other relics were still scattered here; the skulls and bones of horses. Nobody had thought these worth buring. More iconographs were taken.

"I don't want to dig too deeply around here." she said. "Disturb things. Indian custom is to bury people in the bodies of things like eagles and wolves and vultures. Air burial. People go into the earth, sort of eventually and in a roundabout way." She took a deep breath. "But some years after the battle, some Omnian missionaries were allowed to come here and collect what they could for a proper burial. Omnians might be irritating godsbotherers, but at least they take care over this sort of thing. The site should be somewhere around here."

There was a mound that looked man-made. Some searching turned up a stone: the lettering had faded, but the stone tablet still just about read

GENERAL GEORG A. RUJSTER AND 345 MEN OF THE HOWONDALANDIAN SEVENTH CAVALRY. MAY OM HAVE MERCY ON THEIR SOULS.

We dug into the mound deeply enough to add a three-hundred-and-forty-sixth. The remains of Marius van Groote were belatedly interred alongside the others.

Mariella stood back, and then sang one of the anthems. The "Day of Reckoning Has Arrived" one. She does have a powerful voice, and in this place it carried. Respect. You have to pay it.

Then she asked for one of the indelible pens. She put a line through "345" on the memorial stone and wrote "346" over the top.

"Got to pay attention to the small details." she said. "You know, I'm in all probability the first Rimwards Howondalandian to have been here, in a very long time?"

And then we saw who had been following us. He stood to one side, holding a sort of cylindrical furskin cap in front of him, from which dangled a black-and-white striped tail, in the respectful attitude of a mourner at a funeral. He was a small ratty-looking man in fringed buckskins and had a familiar air about him. A covered wagon was parked up some distance away. How had we missed that?

"Gotta pay respect at a funeral, miss." he said. "And that was a powerful hymn. Though I got to warn you, that language you sang in doesn't get you too many friends round these parts. People got long memories."

He smiled and put the hat back on, the tail dangling over the back of his collar. It was as if he was putting on a persona with the hat. Headology, as Olga says.

"Can I interest you in a battlefield tour, ladies? Only three Ankh-Morpork dollars each, and that's volunteering meself for the Sun Dance."

With the usual horrible inevitability, we had met the local Dibbler.

Volunteer-Meself-For-The-Sun-Dance-Dibbler III (Clinton Milhous O'Barmer Taft), who told us he ran trade goods out of Port Smith-Rhodes and Sprained Ankle, you know, blankets, beads, household sundries, firewater, the odd crossbow, trades it for native artefacts, pemmican and the like, and that looks like good pemmican you got drying on the back of that mule, miss. Cross the Plains a lot, never go into Apache country that's right out, get to meet everybody and know who's who and what's what, sort of thing, you two ladies looks as if you could use a guide, only a dollar a day, and that's…

"Volunteering yourself for the Sun Dance." we both said together.

We are to travel with Dibbler, first to Port-Smith-Rhodes and then down to Sprained Ankle. This is zig-zagging diagonally across the continent, but promises to be entertaining and worth a negotiated fee. We are in no hurry, after all. ( **We** get his services as local guide. **He** gets two Ankh-Morpork trained Assassins as escort and bodyguards. This, we think, is an acceptable trade-off.) Dibbler can also act as introduction to local Indian tribes and our intermediary.

"Got salt?" Mariella asked.

"Got any potatoes?" I asked.

Salt, but no potatoes. Fresh out, apparently. Ah well. Somewhere there will be potatoes. Something to look forward to.

We rode on with Dibbler and his cart. He seemed glad of the company. We listened attentively to his knowledge of Indian peoples and customs. It's good to have a local guide. And we were to meet the Indians, of the Latoka and Ogglala Sioux Nations around these parts, apparently. The Ogglalas are apparently a matriarchy ruled, informally, by a Medicine Woman. We wondered if that was a local word for "witch." We felt we would soon find out.

With great affection and love to Bekki and Famke.

Rivka

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** At first there was confusion. The early explorer Sir Wally de Fivespeed-Gearbox advocated drying and smoking the potato, and eating nicotine leaves in the form of a nutritious green salad….

 **(2)** OK, no longer South Africa's national anthem in its older form, but persisting, heavily diluted, in the current version.

 **(3)** See my tale _**Rincewind Among The Redskins**_ for the full tale of General Rujster's fate at the Big Horn.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **Random out-of-sequence ideas and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 _ **From a PM to GuesssWho, who asked about side-effects of a Syrittian diet… germs of future story ideas here.**_

 **The rabbit or the flying sheep? I'd guess from the developing illogic of the story that Syrittian mutton could be marketed as a diet aid - you'd step on the scales and - wow. Ten pounds lighter, or apparently so. (CMOT's weight watcher diet! "$AM 2.50 a pound, and that's cutting me own throat!") I suspect eaten once or twice, you really would be walking on air, but it would, in the normal course of things, wear off and Mariella and Rivka discover they're leaving footprints again. (however, there would be the problem, if I may get lavatorial, of, er, "floaters"... delicacy forbids.) Perhaps you would need a lifetime diet to succeed as a Syrittian shepherd! Also wondering if a K'holli dog, transplanted to A-M and given all the miscellaneous nameless parts form Gerhardt Sock's abbatoir, would very soon be grounded. Or if after a while and down the generations, the ability to be a sheepdog in three dimensions becomes engrained, owing to the peculiar laws of Discworld genetics, and all puppies get it as standard. Hmm. What if Johanna were to be given a K'holli... thoughts. Or an adult Bekki, now a Witch, gets a unique pet dog who appreciates being taken for Walkies alongside mistress on her broomstick... this opens up many lines of thought!**

 **Currenly working on adventures among the people who gave the Disc One-Man-Bucket and his unfortunately named twin brother. Thinking up some useful Latoka Sioux names to present... and suitable Indian names for the girls. ("she of unsightly red hair and disfiguring skin blemishes on an unattractively pale ghost-like skin", contracted to "I think they're calling you "Ginger"", by Rivka. and "Woman sharp and prickly as the Sonora Cactus of the Turnwise desert", or something. Call-back to her goblin name, perhaps).**

 **and the Latoka Sioux, of course, are the ones who put strange herbs into the peace pipe... I have ideas here too.**


	19. Of Deerbs, and Counting Coup

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Nineteen:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **We are on the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. It is high summer, June - July. In which First Contact is made with a very singular Tribe.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **EDIT: Tidying, cleaning up, and expanding a little with a new and necessary footnote.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and now in the Great Plains, as a guest and honorary warrior of the Ogglala Sioux Nation._

 _June 30_ _th_ _, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon._

Hi Johanna!

I am pleased to say we have been guests of the Ogglala Nation for several days now. Mr Volunteer-Meself-For-The-Sun-Dance Dibbler the Third very kindly set up the introductions for us after a fast and somewhat interesting change in the pace of life here. Far from being isolated travellers in a big country, we are suddenly surrounded by other people, who in the main have been friendly. (The neighbouring Arapaho tribe may not be as disposed to hospitality, however, not after the round of horse-and-squaw raiding that went on, but I'll get round to this.) After some weeks of only having each other's company under big skies, this is taking some getting used to.

Our recollections may well be bitty and out of sequence, but bear with us.

We were pleasantly pleased and surprised that Nottie Garlick and then Olga Romanoff found us so unerringly. Thank you for the updates on Ankh-Morpork that you sent with Nottie, and for your inspiration as to how we could be located so precisely. We thought that would be it, and then a day or so later, Olga came back with – and I thank you deeply – potatoes. Ten pounds of lovely wonderful manna-from-heaven King Lorenzos. And the carrots, and the parsnips.

I am abashed and a little embarrassed that you privately discussed a sensitive issue from a previous letter with Miss Band, and that she very kindly and with great tact has sent a personal reply to both of us. Please thank her for her kindness and discretion. It is appreciated, and I am thankful that she has not taken offence to one or two comments. As she says, a "certain sort of behaviour" that inevitably manifests in all-female environments such as a boarding school inescapably develops its own vocabulary and euphemisms, and she appreciates that at our school, it is referred to as "doing an Alice Band" or "getting all Alice Band with each other". I appreciate that Miss Band prefers not to be officially aware of her name being a coded reference in student slang, and that it gives her cause for a certain amusement. I can also now understand enough _Vondalaans_ to comprehend your advice to Mariella, which read

 _As dit gebeur, dit gebeur. Ons het 'n breë-minded en verdraagsaam te wees. Noem dit "eksperimenteer in die kollege", maar ter wille van al die Gode,_ _moenie toelaat dat Mutti weet_ _!_ **(1)**

As it turned out, nothing did happen. But I cannot deny we weren't tempted, although I think that was the bhong talking. We have very carefully refrained from using the stuff since. It is there, though, or was until recently. We noted Miriam gave us a block of the resin as a parting gift. I like to think we eventually used it wisely, but more later.

So it was Danie that Mariella learnt most of those funny songs from? Older brothers can be a bad influence, can't they! How is he getting on? I do find him to be a pleasant man even if you and Mariella and Heidi have to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him around every so often to get him to do things. Based on my experience of him, how he managed to stir himself to come to Ankh-Morpork appears to be a miracle in itself. Heidi must have been very persuasive. But I agree with you all that left to himself, your brother would have been content to potter around the family farm and die an elderly, if contented, bachelor. I have never met a man with less ambition. He certainly needed shaking up! (Your very forceful father perhaps did a little of the shaking, I suspect?) And your mother is quite adamant in her wish to see him married and settled down. From the very first moment Heidi van Kruger visited your family home, was seen to express an interest in your brother, and your mother took note of this, she was a prisoner! Her fate was sealed. Your mother, who by the way I respect and esteem, might in a different life have become an Assassin herself. In certain very specialised ways she thinks like one, and if the "contract" stipulates the inhumation of Danie Smith-Rhodes' single male status, then his bachelor days are annuled. Her "completion fee" will be a more than acceptable daughter-in-law and the potential for more grandchildren.

From my observation of him, however, Danie, who most of the time is agreeable and laid-back to the point where Matron Igorina might have problems with finding a pulse, completely changes on the Fifteen-A-Side Foot-The-Ball field. Here he becomes, truly, a Smith-Rhodes and son of his formidable father. It is small wonder he leads the Ankh-Morpork Springboeks, the emigré side, every Saturday. For ninety minutes of the week you can see the fighting, agressive, Smith-Rhodes in him. He lives for the game, and it's small wonder that Heidi is there cheering him on Saturday afternoons. She takes School pupils to see the games, and this is, I suspect, where Mariella learnt the words to those sort of songs. And then afterwards your brother again becomes the agreeable, affable, gentle, unambitious soul he is, having got it out of his system in ninety minutes of what you call Applied Violence. He will, I think, make a good match for Heidi so long as she accepts that she will have to do the determining and the decision-making and the leading for both of them. I remain surprised he roused the gumption and the initative to propose to her. And that she was so surprised, she almost forgot to say "yes".

Mariella is gloomy about this. She knows that after Danie, she is next on your mother's list for attention. Just as I am with mine. This bonds us. Yenta Goldberg pursued me as far as Smyrrit, by the way. She has not yet found me here. Even though one of the Ogglala Indians has the interesting name of Eagle-Nose Klein, and another is called Hunting Bear Epstein, which suggests that even here she has contacts she can call on. Yentas do. They have contacts everywhere. Hunting Bear's squaw Esther Three-Deers-Grazing recognised me instantly as Cenotian, for instance, and invited me to Shabbat dinner. The tribal wise woman who accepted us as guests (eventually!) says this is down to the Nation taking in refugees from a strange foreign land several great-grandfathers ago. She says this is not unusual. Some moons away on the Plains is the old-established tribe of the McSweeney Indians, who apparently have been here for a very long time. A very long-established Tribe whose origins are lost in the mists of legend. Most tribes will take in outsiders who prove themselves worthy, she says. "We ain't fussy. Being one of the Indian Nations is more of a state of mind, see. And new people stops the blood dryin' up." she said. "You know. You starts with a lake, you ends up with a puddle."

Anana Ogglala is the Medicine Woman to this tribe. There is notionally a Chief, but he is deferential to his Mother and she advises him as to decisions he should take. "Anana" is a title of reverence that passes down the generations of senior Ogglala women: the Anana is the Ogglala, the living heart and soul of the Nation.

I suspect elsewhere she would be termed a Witch. Or a Yenta.

Anyway. We travelled with Mr Dibbler the Third for a day, leaving the sad site of the Big Horn battle behind us. It felt far less opressive and weighty after we located the lost bones of a dead soldier and laid them to rest, by the way. You could speculate, if you were so minded, that we were being called and prompted to do this and once done, the place relaxed, and eased its insistent grip on us. I'm not going to say Mariella tripped over those bones by accident, anyway.

We learnt many useful things about Indian tribes and customs as we rode. This came in very useful later. Mr Dibbler was explaining to us that the original Dibbler, Mr Skin-Meself-Alive-Over-Three-Agonising-Days Dibbler, **(2)** had lived a long and happy life as a mobile trader, finding time to marry and have a son, Dibbler the Second. He one day strayed into the Apache lands and couldn't talk his way out of them again.

"Apparently hard to do when you ain't got a tongue no more, miss." he said. "Nasty business."

We gathered Apaches are not nice. We have collated what other tribes know of them for the "AVOID THIS PLACE" section of the Dark Library. There are interesting legends. we wil send this as a seperate report once we have collected, discussed and evaluated such accounts as we hear. Aspects of the body of lore concerning the Apache may be new to the Guild and suggest a certain intriguing hypothesis.

His son, Dibbler the Third, now in his sixties, keeps the family business afloat. Apparently Dibbler the Fourth, _his_ son, is out there somewhere on the trading run to the Forest Tribes of Huron, Iroquis, and so on.

"Mohicans?" Mariella asked.

Dibbler shook his head.

"Not any more, miss. There's a bloke out there claims to be the Last Of Them, but between you and me he's a bit of a fraud. Working a con. The proper Last of the Mohicans went to the Happy Hunting Grounds a long time ago."

We were now riding, roughly, in the direction of the distant coast and Port Smith-Rhodes. Mr Dibbler thought there were large camps of the Ogglala and the Latoka somewhere nearby. He knew the chiefs, and would introduce us. And the Medicine Woman, who makes the law round these parts. She sounded interesting. And believe me – she was!

I am travelling in the back of Dibbler's wagon at present. This sways and bounces, so apologies for any scrawled writing. Mariella is scouting at the moment; in a little while we will switch places, her horse can rest a little without a rider, and I will take over escort duties when my horse is rested. For now, in the heat of the afternoon, I will try to sleep a little.

Love

Rivka

* * *

 _The Assassins' Guild School, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork._

Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes took a deep breath. She had retured gratefully to the sanctuary of the Staffroom after her first two-hour lesson slot of the day was over. Trying to ignore the pervading universal teachers' lounge odour of mingled sweat, resignation, desperation and tobacco smoke, she made her way to the window recess which she had claimed as her Spot. **(3)**

It had been a straightforward lecture to a mixed fourth year class in Zoology and Natural Science. The lesson plan had been to explain to the class about how human interaction with the natural world had altered many species to the point where they were almost unrecognisable from the original wild varieties. She had begun with those animals domesticated and adapted to suit the needs of hunter-gatherer societies: how horses had been broken for riding and how, as settled agriculture replaced nomadic tribal systems, other animals had been trained and remodelled to suit human needs. Ten thousand years had seen cattle selectively bred for draught use, for milk, for hides, and for meat. The catle, goats and sheep we have now have been so changed by being selectively bred that at the very least we have created whole new sub-species. This can be ascertained by experimental comparison of domesticated species, to those of their wild forebears unaltered by mankind, still existing in the world today. Examples, anybody?

Johanna had reasoned that in a class where quite a few people came from families that worked the land and knew about these things, and a significant number came from families tha merely _owned_ the land and rebted it out to tenant families who did the actual work, the two sides could therefore educate each other, informally. She felt this would be of educational benefit to everyone and meant she could step back and act as referee whilst the clock ticked nearer to her teabreak. And various Rusts, Eorles, Selachiis, Venturis and Hargarths might actually learn something practically useful. You never knew.

With the class discussion on the development of cattle, sheep, goats and poultry over the millenia petering out, she remarked that there's always something new to learn. Recently she had heard of the Flying Sheep of Syrrit from eye-witness accounts, and introduced the idea that selection and breeding of agricultural animals was not yet over and was taking newer and more interesting directions, depending on need.

The Department of Pseudo, Neo, Crypto and Para Zoology at the University had been very helpful, and had provided her copies of research material from field research wizards. Professor Brian Trubshaw and Doctor Emile Zapapatique's thesis on _**Les Moutons Voulants de Smyrritte**_ was a source she would be referring to.

Things like this are a gift to an experienced teacher looking to impart the maximum of education, for the least actual effort, to a class only partially temperamentally inclined to receive it. And the idea of flying sheep interested _everybody_. It occupied a good thirty minutes of the allocated time, and served as a useful example of human intervention changing nature according to need. And did the class consider this has implications for how we interpret the theory of evolution? Anyone?

Johanna then led a class discussion on how the original wild dogs, and possibly wolves, were the starting point for all the breeds of dog we see in the world today. Howondalandian Ridgebacks were cited as an example, with their origins lying in native dogs such as basenji and khoikhoi, which were selectively bred to dogs imported from the Central Continent which in normal circumstances they would never have encountered. Add in Lipzwiger and Great Hublander and refine through the generations with little bits of other dogs, then selectively breed your results to strengthen and concentrate desired characteristics, and you get the breed standard for a Ridgeback. And yes, Miss Somerleyton?

"Please, miss, is it true you're getting new dogs soon?"

Johanna had wanted to expand on the theme, to get people talking on how, from a limited original pool, you get the Tezuman Chihuahua at one end of the scale and the Howondalandian Ridgeback at the other. What breeding conditions do you need to fulfil to get a dog barely eight inches long and three or four high, as opposed to one getting on for three feet tall at the shoulder? But this student was a Raven House girl. Who had certain informal privileges. And who had all cried for the older dogs when old age took them. She decided to diverge.

" _Ja._ If all goes to plen, there will be opportunities to walk end groom my new dogs. When I get them. But this time eround, they will not be Ridgebecks."

Johanna then spoke briefly about the characteristics and essential nature of Boerboels. Who were also a Howondalandian dog and who presented interesting management issues. And were therefore not for inexperienced or novice dog owners. Part native dog, part Ridgeback, part bulldog, but mainly part large mastiffs sich as Lipzwigers and Dobermanns. If socialised and trained correctly, very affectionate and friendly dogs. "I hope et least some of you cen be part of thet training."

The girls in the class expressed excited interest.

The Boerboel puppies were coming from a reputable breeder out near Sto Kerrig. Johanna had intended to take Bekki with her to choose the two who seemed best. And then she'd come back from Lancre with a large wicker basket that _miouwed_. She had decided, being by preference and habit more of a doggy person, the dogs would still arrive, and the sooner the better so that puppies and kittens could be socialised together, and regard each other's presence as perfectly natural.

 _And they better had do._

She was still going to take Bekki with her to Sto Kerrig and make it clear that her daughter was part of the process of making this thing work, and that raising pet animals required hard consistent work. And this time around there would be _four_ large pets in the house, each type needing diligent and consistent attention and training. Johanna wasn't too certain how it would work with cats. Especially _those_ cats. She was looking for specialised advice on this. She suspected the sort of cats she dealt with at the Zoo had given her a knowledge-base that was not going to be completely relevant here. Lions and tigers were one thing and were, to an extent, predictable. But one specific exception aside, they were not normally domestic pets. Lions (apart from Klarenz) did not eat in your kitchen, nor did they sleep anywhere they liked in the house, including on your bed at night. And Klarenz had been a gentle giant. She winced. And as if on cue, the class clown seized his opportunity.

"Please, ma'am." said the class joker. "What about _cats_?"

Johanna supressed a wince. They soon got to find out about things. Gods knew how. But they found out. She glared at him, the sort of glare that makes it abundantly clear this provocation would not be forgotten in other classes she led.

"En interesting point, mr Burgh-Castle." she said, in the sort of neutral teacher voice that made it clear she would not forget, and a suitable duty at the Zoo could be provided on the next class trip there. "Let us discuss _cets_. Es some of you may know, my home recently ecquired two interesting kittens. Who are a good topic for discussion here."

Johanna then discussed domestic cats, a species we all know but who are often overlooked when analyzing the finer points of animal breeding. People erroneously think they are _just cats_. This is a fallacious perception. Perhaps familiarity has bred, if not contempt, then disinterest.

She discussed them under four of the five standard categories used by cat breeders. Pedigree cats, domestic cats flawed by mixed pedigree, common or mongrel cats, and varying degrees of wholly feral cats. Pedigree cats are of most interest to breeders, whose Fancy parellels that of dog and dragon breeders.

And then the damn Burgh-Castle boy stuck his hand up again, with all the attitude of an earnest student who only sought truth and wisdom. All teachers with experience learn to view this attitude with the deepest of suspicion.

"Please, ma'am. You said there was a _fifth_ category. But you haven't discussed it yet?"

 _The Acerian Skunks might need their habitat cleaning_ , she thought. _Such affectionate creatures who show their appreciation for the kind human tending to their needs by spraying all over him._

Johanna took a deep breath, and smiled.

"Exectly correct. Breeders of pedigree cets heve a _fifth_ cless of enimel. This is not a breed es such. In the same way thet being knurd is not on the same scale es being drunk. You might refer to it, from the cet-breeder's specialised point of view, es an enti-breed. A _Deerb_ , perheps. Something which cet-breeders looking for pedigree end good lineage in their enimels know end dread. I em, of course, referrring to a strain in the feline race known es the _Lencre Greebo_."

Johanna then explained the almost unique condition prevailing locally in Lancre, where practically every cat in the kingdom, and for some way beyond, it had a proportion of genes derived from one male ancestor who popped up at intervals in virtually every cat lineage. Quite often managing to be the sole male ancestor in several generations of cats. To such an extent that a Greebo, unofficially known as _Felis Lancrastriensis Greebo_ , was now practically a cat breed in itself, perhaps even a distinct sub-species, much though professional breeders shuddered at the awful realisation.

"Or perhaps a Deerb, ma'am." Mr Burgh-Castle observed, with seeming helpfulness.

 _It is the skunk's way of being friendly and expressing acceptance and friendship for the human keeper. It merely wishes to do you the favour of having you share its lovely smell. And to think some people mistakenly consider this is hostility._

"And you got your new kittens from Lancre, ma'am?"

 _And the smell persists for quite some time. It takes many baths to remove it._

" _Ja_ , Mr Burgh-Castle. The breeder who sold these kittens to my husband was quite distressed a feral tom managed somehow to get over the deep security ditch, then the ten foot high fence topped with razor wire, end the large dogs kept for security, in order to get et a female in heat of whom she hed high hopes. **(4)** She earnestly reccomended thet the cets be neutered et the earliest opportunity. This is strongly reccomended by the Enkh-Morpork Governing Council of the Cet Fency, in ell cases of suspected Greebo."

Johanna smiled.

"Other cat breeders speak darkly of the _brick-in-a-seck_ method of eliminating the Greebo strain when it is seen to emerge. But they sey this nowhere where Mrs Ogg might hear this. She hes definite end emphetic opinions about this. I elso prefer the humane method."

She discussed surgical procedures which were applicable in these circumstances.

"Any of you who ere interested in my optional course module in basic vetinerary procedures may ettend end observe, when I perform the necessery surgicel procedure. I mey select one or two of you to essist. The demonstration surgery et the Zoo is set up for teaching, end cen eccomodate up to twenty observers. I em setisfied, however, thet my femily cets are _mainly_ Ecerian Maine Coons. Some of you will be there to observe them es they grow to meturity, I hope. Are there eny further questions?"

Back in the blessed sanctuary of the staffroom, she breathed out and hoped her next lesson, in Theoretical Assymetric Warfare, would be less problematical and more straightforward. Johanna reflected that professional teachers practiced Assymetrical Warfare every day in every class - _one of me against thirty of them._ She hoped to incorporate her younger sister's recent activity in Klatch, as a practical lesson in how to get it right. She was proud of Mariella, and looked forward to her despatches.

Johanna's friend Emmanuelle-Marie de Lapoignard joined her and they compared their mornings. Emmanuelle, Johanna reflected, had taken her own motherhood and two sons in her stride. Older, yes, but still exotically attractive, the beginnings of a few laughter lines around her eyes, but very much in appearance as she had been before children. Motherhood, she reflected, and the aura of maturity that comes with this, had made Emmanuelle more rather than less beautiful. She tried not to let this irritate her too much.

"I am so proud of those two girls, _chère amie_." she remarked. "They are a great credit to Black Widow House and such an example to the girls there. It makes me content that they encountered my husband and were kind enough to speak so well of him. And I believe he would have helped them over the border, even if he remembered he should have arrested them. Maurice is a gentle, and above all a chivalrous man. With a Quirmian appreciation of what is both correct and _romantique,_ a _beau geste_ indeed." **(5)**

She smiled.

"Two of my very best pupils. I think of them with warmth and appreciation. Is there any current news?"

"They have pessed onto the Central Plains." Johanna said. "Our friends in the Pegasus Service heve promised they will look out for them. Olga said she is due to do the routine runs to Port-Smith-Rhodes end to Sprained Enkle. We heve spoken of locating two trevellers in a huge open plain. We believe there is a method to do this precisely, thet which eliminates the need for a time-consuming search. The girls of the Service are going to try thet out. Hopefully then there will be enother set of mailings."

"I truly hope so, Johanna." Emmanuelle said. "They cheer everybody up in this Staffroom, for one thing. And when Antoinette graciously allows me to maintain my association with Black Widow House and speak to the girls in the House Assembly, they are keen to hear an account of how two respected Old Girls are faring abroad. Truly, their adventures are good for everybody."

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

Well, we made contact with the Indians. On the 26th June, the day after we visited the Big Horn battlefield. (iconographs enclosed, together with a formal report that perhaps Cousin Julian could advise on how to officially transmit this to Pratoria. I know he is no longer Military Attaché and has advanced in the Service since formally leaving the Army to pursue a career in diplomacy. But he will know who to contact and have more idea than me as to how these things are handled. I am glad he is now at the Quirm Embassy and only a train journey away: it makes it easier for Ruth to travel there on her weekends off. I am pleased they still maintain their close friendship.)

A group of several mounted braves were observed, seven or eight of them, who spotted our party and began riding towards us. All were young males in headdresses and carrying weapons and shields. You do have to admit, the sight of impressively built young men carrying no bodily fat and naked to the waist, on horseback, can be quite a pleasant one. (Miss Band may have no need to give any further specialized pastoral advice? I am now rather more sure of where my inclinations lie. Even though I could perhaps in some circumstances make an exception for _some_ women… but as Miss Band was keen to advise us, nobody is ever 100% of one inclination. It was a surprise for her to frankly admit that now and again, she _has_ felt stirrings of attraction for men, although she was very keen to say she has never felt a pressing need to do anything active about it! And yes, I know this is confidential information and not to be bandied about. I mention it because you are friends of long standing and have probably had many such intimate conversations, much as Rivka and I do.)

The sight of eight warriors whooping and galloping towards us at full speed, raising weapons, was alarming. Mr Dibbler urgently advised us that it wasn't as bad as it seemed, miss, they're not wearing warpaint, this is just a game.

I remembered something he'd said about Plains Indian customs, and said to Rivka not to kill anybody. If she could help it. Then I took my lance out of its rest in front of my saddle and took care to reverse it so that it was butt-end first, and galloped at them, hoping I'd read their intentions correctly. I could hear Rivka following and hoped she'd worked it out too. They now had two fast-moving targets to divide their attention, and I hoped they would ride into each other and get into each other's way.

As I drew nearer I saw the weapons were just clubs, large sticks, with no blade or blunt instrument to them. And they were shorter than my lance, which made it easier. Although I suspected any blow would not be gentle, if it landed.

We then played a chase-game which involved me ducking their blows and swinging the staff of my lance so that I touched them first. There were whoops of something like consternation merged with appreciation. Rivka was making no attempt to hit any of them, she was just dodging their swings and evading. The horses seemed to appreciate the exertion too: we are taught that in cavalry encounters, the horses will play games of their own with each other, in a "see what I can do? Submit to me, I am dominant!" sort of way. This helped too.

After I had touched five of the braves with my lance, and Rivka was still dodging and evading (although she had made no attempt, yet, to draw her sword) they mainly fell back, whooping in the main with amusement and perhaps a sort of respect.

One wearing more feathers in his bonnet than the others, perhaps the sub-chief who led them, appeared angry and upset, as if he had lost face in an encounter with mere women who had managed to count coup on him. He lowered his lance, shouted a battle-cry, and charged at me. I felt this one would be more than just play but understood it would not be politically advisable to kill or seriously injure him.

But he seemed intent on injuring me, having gone beyond a game played by warriors who encounter each other on the plain.

With my lance reversed, I couched the weapon and rode at him. His weapon was raised as if to stab downwards. My reversed lance was awkwardly balanced, but I was still able to let the momentum of my horse guide me, as I was taught, and to brace my arm and upper body so that the blunt end caught him on the upper stomach - not directly as the balance mitigated agianst this, but in a sort of oblique side-swipe - and pitched him off his horse. He landed in a way that knocked the fight out of him and sent his bonnet askew, and for a moment I was concerned that I had done more damage than I intended. i reflected that at that speed and momentum, even a direct impact with the blunt butt might have seriously injured or killled, and I felt glad the blow had been off-centre with the haft, not the narrow end of the butt.

The shock of impact had almost sent me flying too, but I recovered, as Mr Harvey-Smith taught we advanced riders training in the cavalry lance, and checked my horse.

The party of braves seemed to accept us as warriors, and Mr Dibbler conferred with them and then said they would escort us to their main camp, a few miles away, as guests under Dibbler's guidance, they seemed amused we'd humbled the sub-chief, who they thought was a _{{bit of a one who suffers from the wasting disease of iron when exposed to water"}}_

"Oh. _Rust_?" Rivka said. Mr Dibbler nodded.

Some concepts appear universal.

The sub-chief, whose pride had been bruised, rode sullenly with them. We gathered that having been humbled by women who had counted coup on him, he would not remain a sub-chief for very long and by vote of his fellows, would be reduced to ordinary warrior. Leadership status would pass to another.

"Watch that one, miss." Mr Dibbler advised me. "He's a touchy bugger. He'll want to get even with you. The others think you're okay, though. They seem quite taken with Miss Rivka and the way she rides."

Nothing said about me and the way I ride, I noticed. Hmmph.

And then we saw the Indian camp. It smelt indescribable, even for people who have lived near the Ankh in high summer.

"What smell? Oh, I see… you get used to it, miss" said Dibbler.

Lots of children and scrawny dogs ran to meet us as we arrived. It appeared Dibbler is known and tolerated here. There were sixty or seventy tall, roughly conical, tents, hides wrapped around a tripod of long poles, with frequent cooking fires and arrangements of meat and hides drying on fames. Old men and women were dutifully beating the flies off. A midden composed of the usual sorts of waste, and large animal bones, was fortunately downwind of the camp. Younger men and women, some of striking beauty, turned to watch us as we rode in.

Many horses grazed in a roughly fenced compound outside the encampment.

And then we got to meet the real Chief. And his mother, Anana Ogglala. Who we found was the true power behind the totem pole, and a woman on whose goodwill we were now completely dependent.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** trans: "If it happens, it happens. We have to be broad-minded and tolerant. Call it "experimenting in college",. but for the Gods' sake, _**do not let Mother know**_!"

 **(2) S** ee my story ** _Rincewind Among The Redskins_.** The first Plains Trader Dibbler had taken his name from a Kiowa Indian custom of hospitality towards strangers. **  
**

 **(3)** She had learnt this from observing an eccentric academic called Doctor Sheldon Cooper on a visit to the Roundworld. Johanna, a skilled animal ethnologist, had reasoned that territoriality was inevitable in any species, and besides, everybody needed their Spot. i know. In _**The Many Worlds interpretation**_. which I will get back to. Patience!

 **(4)** The cat breeder simply did not know that Greebo had managed this by Turning Human and simply walking into the breeding compound through the unpadlocked and simply bolted door. Once inside and driven by a deeper drive, he had Turned Cat again. The guard-dogs had been intimidated out of any sort of opposition to him. Dogs know bad news when they sense it. Greebo might have been getting older and slowing down a bit, but a learnt sense of low cunning and experience had made him even more formidable. Cat owners and professional breeders prayed for Death to come along and take Greebo's last and ninth life. But Death had been there eight times before, also had hard experience as well as several sets of shredded black robes and gouge marks on some bones, and was in no hurry for that final encounter. Besides, Death respected Gytha Ogg. A lot. In our world, for comparison, the normal upper age for domestic cats is 16-20. (Reference Mr Tiddles at the Post Office). One documented cat in the USA is currently 26; the current world record holder is 29 and lives in Sweden. There are unconfirmed reports of some moggies making it past 30 with one unconfirmed claimant thought to be around 32.

 **EDIT:** Just discovered the proven Oldest Cat Ever was called "Creme Puff" (yes, really) who the Guinness Book of Records confirmed was thirty-eight years and three days old on date of demise. In Austin, Texas. Although it is noted that non-neutered complete Toms tend to die of complications from their intact status between 14-18 years. Even so, there is still wiggle-room here for a very old, vigorous and cunning Greebo. and those missing seventeen years due to witches getting manipulative could even point to Greebo still being alive and badass at the age of fifty-five. And given Greebo can Turn Human, and people routinely live into their seventies... I feel oddly cheered by this. Death may have lots of wiggle-room about collecting that last life.

 **(5)** I know. P.C. Wren's _**Beau Geste**_ novels of the foreign Legion, as sent up by TP in _**Soul Music**_.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

Thinking of the classic line from _**Terminator**_ and somehow it got subverted to

" _ **I want your clothes, your boots, and your unicycle."**_

A half-formed idea about a one-off in which a strange visitor to Ankh-Morpork, wanting to blend in and get local clothes so as to avoid attention, mugs a Clown for clothing – and a method of travel….

 **Bonus lyric:**

 **Robbie Wessels,** _ **die Leeuloop**_ **(part)**

Tennisballe!

Krieketballe!

Snoekerballe, as jy wil…

nou as jy weet wat die leeulop is  
en jy weet waar die leeu moet rus  
maak jou broek en jou belt los geleidelik  
die leeuloop is baie verleidelik  
en ek gaan hom nou stap vir stap verduidelik

knyp twee balle vas tussen jou bene  
met jou hande en jou knee op die stene  
trek af jou broek en brul  
as jy wil  
solank jy net leeuloop

tennisballe krieketballe snoekerballe as jy wil

" **if God had meant us to like South Africans, He wouldn't have made them sound the way they do". (comedian Andy Hamilton. And** _ **absolutely not me**_ **. ).**

 _ **PM to reader Novohank, who pointed out an Issue, now noted and dealt with, thank you very much!**_

 **Ah, thank you for this!**

 **It's down to the way I write: I finish a chapter, post it to Doc manager, correct and check formatting, then it goes live. Meanwhile, my own copy in Word is something I get sort of lazy with. I might take Chapter Five, block-delete all the text and just leave the formatting, header, repeated text, et c, then start over-writing as Chapter Six, and save the new copy as Chapter Six. So things like the Notes Dump might get overlooked and repeat across chapters. You're right that this could get confusing from a reader viewpoint, so I'll go back and correct. Thanks for pointing this out!**

 _ **Interesting aside:**_

 **In his diaries, Michael Palin notes that it takes ten mornings, or five full days, of intense writing (call it 40 hours?) to come up with twenty minutes of final film script. So 90 minutes of movie takes around 230 hours of screenwriter time?**


	20. The Sundance Kids

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **We are on the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. It is high summer, June - July. In which First Contact is made with a very singular Tribe. A longer one today! (but a Part two will follow - lots of action hinted at but not described. 7,200 words is getting long...)  
**_

 _ **EDIT: ocarinas are not a percussion instrument. Ameded, Thanks to CarrieVS for noticing. I also got the headcount of Smith-Rhodeses in the general Ankh-Morporksto Plains region slightly wrong - there are in fact six. I have left Famke out as at eighteen months old, she is a threat-in-being - and left out wider relations. (van der Graafs and a Roydes. Adding them in makes ten. Eleven, when Heidi acquires dangerous-to-be-related-to in-laws and becomes a Family member by marriage. Damn, Ponder Stibbons is in that box too. Twelve.) Edited.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _18 Spa Lane, Nap Hill, Ankh-Morpork._

Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes graciously ignored the large winged white horse that was grazing her back lawn. She noted that Cyprian the gardener was standing by with a bucket and shovel, on the grounds that a useful opportunity was not to be missed, and that he was attentive to shoo the visitor away from grazing any of the more decorative and interesting garden plants.

She and Pegasus Service pilot Nottie Garlick amicably collaborated on carrying the large bundled parcel from the garden into the house. They manoeuvred it to the kitchen.

"So whet have they sent back _this_ time?" Johanna asked, intrigued, despite herself. A gift from her sister on her travels could be anything, and hard experience had taught her to open them with caution, preferably with Ponder standing by in case it needed intervention from one skilled in dealing with things of magic.

" _Ex Howondalandia_ , and all that." Nottie said, cheerfully.

"… _semper aliquid nova_." Ponder completed, automatically. He was intrigued too.

" _Ja_." Johanna sighed. "Elways something new out of Howondaland."

It took little deduction even without opening the parcel. There was a lance there. A crudely made native artefact, but nevertheless well balanced, and obviously made by somebody who knew Essence of Weapon.

Johanna lifted it and tested the balance. It felt very good as a weapon. Despite it being a long, well-chipped and very sharp flint head secured to a willow haft with rawhide. A bundle of long feathers, brightly coloured, was attached behind the head with crude glue and yarn.

"Somebody must have tried to stick this into Mariella or Rivka." Johanna speculated. "End lost his grip on it shortly efterwards."

"And that wasn't all he lost." Nottie remarked, as the rest of the bundle was opened.

There were tomahawks, crude stone axes fastened to handles, an equally basic hunting bow and a bundle of tied arrows, and a round buckler shield in some sort of animal hide stretched over lightweight wood, painted in four variegated quarters and decorated with the inevitable feathers.

A note in Mariella's handwriting said "Typical weapons of the Arapaho Indians. Thought you'd like them for the collection. See letter for details."

Ponder relaxed and said "Well, nothing overtly magical. Although somebody put a protection spell on these things. I can feel it. Not threatening, though."

"Didn't protect the original owner very much." Johanna remarked, mildly.

"Against your sister? And Rivka? That's got to be strong magic." Nottie said.

"Well, if you apply enough brute force, most unsophisticated magical wards break down. It's like cast iron. Hit it hard enough, it shatters." said Ponder.

Dorothea the cook looked across, the expression on her face saying "I'm not trying to give you orders, Madam, but I'd be happy if you were to move those interesting things from my kitchen table."

Johanna read the look. Cooks had certain privileges when interacting with the Mistress. In the kitchen, cooks could give orders to their employers. It was accepted. They picked up the assorted things of interest and followed the sound of singing into the main room. Johanna heard Claude the butler saying, with the right sort of deference:

"It may be advisable if Sir were to refrain from instructing Little Madam in the words to the song concerning the activities of Auntie Tina." he said. "I believe Madam was most emphatic in this wish."

Johanna took a deep breath. The male voice, a Howondalandian-accented one, said:

"Not even the polite version you could teach the _Dominee_ , Claude?"

"Not even _that_ one, Sir. Madam was most explicit."

"End so is thet bleddy song." Johanna said, entering. "End ell the other ones you know."

Danie Smith-Rhodes smiled a big amiable "Hey, big sister, you know I love you dearly" smile at her. It was hard not to warm to a smile like that. People did.

He was comfortably curled up in the big armchair, something about him saying he could easily put roots down and never leave it again. An equally happy niece and two large kittens, larger than the usual run of things for infant cats, were just as happily curled up on and around him, completely at ease in his presence.

 _He'd be dangerous to women if he weren't so completely idle_ , Johanna thought. _Getting him to aspire to even one woman was a bloody miracle._

"Somebody else tried to kill baby sister?" he inquired, nodding to the weapons.

Johanna nodded.

"Perhaps over here, Madam, with the selection of spears and lances of various nations?" Claude asked. Johanna nodded. "And I believe there is room for the shield on this wall. Next to the fine silvered Klatchian buckler that Young Madam despatched back fairly recently. I can instruct Cyprian to attach a suitable hook in the wall to carry it."

"Thenk you, Claude." Johanna said.

She tried to glare at her brother. Danie did not notice.

"Baby sister's prectically unkillable." Danie remarked. "She hed an errow put right through her once. Still here. It's going to take more than a native with a spear to get her."

"Uncle Danie's funny, isn't he, mummy?" Bekki said. "He knows ever so many funny songs!"

"Yes. He _does_ , doesn't he?" Mummy said, with a meaningful glare at her brother. Again it utterly failed to have any effect.

Danie had arrived later in the same year Bekki had been born. Life had just been getting back to normal after her parents had left for Home – and they'd been in Ankh-Morpork for several months. Johanna's niece, accepted at the Guild School purely on the basis of her name, had arrived and was settling in as a boarder in Raven House. Sir Samuel Vimes had remarked, in his usual sour way, that there seemed to be an uncomfortably large number of Smith-Rhodeses in his city all of a sudden. Five now. _Six,_ if you counted little Bekki as a potential trouble-magnet. Given time.

And then there were suddenly six. She had returned home from the School one evening for Claude to inform her that her brother had arrived, Madam, from Howondaland. I have taken the liberty of instructing a maid to take his luggage, such as it is, up to a spare room.

Danie had greeted her with a hug and a warm friendly smile, and had then stayed for a month.

Shortly after his arrival, Johanna had had a terse conversation with her former student and now friend Heidi van Kruger, and things became clear. With all available Pegasus passenger space having been taken up by the need to fly Johanna's parents to Ankh-Morpork as a priority, Heidi had been happy to stay on in Howondaland for a few days until she could be brought back.

The reason for her being perfectly happy to remain was now occupying a spare room in Johanna's home. She'd met Danie and, well, you know, Johanna. Errr.

Danie had said his mother and father had both had words with him on their return Home. Quite a lot of words, in their mother's case, boiling down to "You're twenty-three. You're single. A very nice girl of good family, a couple of years younger than you, has taken an interest. Fine Boer people from down near Magersfontein. She's in Ankh-Morpork and still interested in you. _Why are you then still here?_ In my opinion as your mother, you are going to do something about it. Johanna can put you up."

Their father had said "None of my business, boy. Up to you how you live your life. But your older brother gets this _plaas_ after I go. Fact of life, and he's good at it. He inherits. _You_ can stay here owning nothing, but still having a position here, and die a single man when you're eighty. And if you carry on that's exactly where you'll end up. You won't be poor and you won't be homeless, and you'll have family. But Gods, somebody needs to put a firework up your guava to get you to stir, and _do things_. This _plaas_ will carry on perfectly well without you for a few years. You can bloody well go to Ankh-Morpork, stay with your sister Johanna, and work things out with this young woman, good girl, good family. Stop your mother shouting down my ear about you. Might come to something, might come to nothing. _Maar, boer soek 'n vrou_!"

 _The farmer needs a wife_ , Johanna realised. And Danie had been sent here to pull his finger out and court one. Who was expressing an interest in being courted, which made it easier. And damn, she _liked_ Heidi. Having her for a sister-in-law wouldn't be a bad thing at all.

And so Danie had stayed. Johanna had made the best of things and got him a try-out as a keeper at the Zoo, reasoning that farming skills and aptitudes were transferable. She had stressed to the veteran senior keepers, Mr Grinchlow and Mr Pontoon, that this was the only favour that her brother could expect and there were to be no more special privileges. Despite his name, he was to be a zookeeper like any other, and if he proved to be useless at it, then he'd have to go.

"No special privileges, ma'am." Mr Grinchlow had said, tapping his nose understandingly. "Got you completely, ma'am. Mr Smith-Rhodes, the brother of the Zoo director, _starts_ as an ordinary trainee probationary zookeeper."

She had winced. But Danie had proven to be good at it. He wasn't _lazy_ , she realised. Just inclined to drift through life in an aimless undirected way and live for the day, doing what needed to be done as well as he could and then, with every satisfaction in work well done, settling back into a state of amiable lethargy. At least Heidi was pepping him up a bit.

And after a few boisterous nights at the Springboek Club, Danie had met other young Rimwards Howondalandian men and moved into a shared bachelor house in Dimwell, living in a permanent _boerwois_ haze from the _braii_ in the back yard. **(1)** He had tried out for the emigré Foot-The-Ball (fifteen a side) team, the Bokkies. When he got hungry or ran out of money, he dropped in to his sister's for dinner. Danie was settling in. Another immigrant ethnic minority person getting by in Ankh-Morpork.

And now, several years on, it looked as if a marriage was happening.

Bekki looked up happily from her uncle's warm and welcoming embrace. Pyn the kitten purred in her sleep. Her brother Smart shifted position on the big friendly human's body. None of the three seemed inclined to move much. Bekki hummed a song.

 _She's Auntie Tina van Wyk,_

 _Good taste and class have passed her by;_

 _My Uncle Feilis is a hog, a 'wois-eating pig,_

 _And she wears a big, fake, Jools-the-Model wig!_ **(2)**

Johanna winced. At least her daughter had learntthe _clean_ words from her uncle. Danie wasn't _that_ irresponsible.

She decided to spend time talking to Nottie over drinks and then read the latest letters from abroad. She looked forward to those despatches and a part of her ached to be nearly twenty years younger, with no commitments, and sharing the journey with them. Then she looked at Ponder and Bekki and remembered Famke was out on a walk with Annaliese, and felt better. New adventures of her own could wait a year or two. No hurry.

And afterwards she could write up any formal reports that the Guild and others needed to know about.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and now in the Great Plains, as a guest and honorary warrior of the Ogglala Sioux Nation._

 _July 2nd, The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon._

Hi Johanna!

We are riding on from the Ogglala, not without regret, but with a guard who will escort us to Sprained Ankle. Indians generally take care when passing through each others' accepted territories, but it is accepted that the trading town of Sprained Ankle and its environs constitute "neutral territory" and that all peoples, even Scalbie Indians, even the Apaches when seen, have a right to a presence here and may travel to and from without hindrance.

Scalbie Indians.

Mr Dibbler the Third explained them to us. We had to forcibly deter a group of rather seedy-looking natives – noble savages they were not! – from stealing from the cart. Mariella and I looked at each other. These were Indians?

After shouting at them to _go on, sling your hook, robbing thieving buggers!,_ Mr Dibbler the Third explained that it's like this, miss. You know as how lots of Indian tribes takes their name and their ethos from a tutelary animal, right, a sort of Nature Spirit taking animal form, a manifiestation of an aspect of the great Manitou, sort of thing? You gets the Crow Indians, for instance, who seek to be Discly avatars of the great intelligent and wily bird known as the Crow or the Raven renowned for its cunning and intelligence, you with me?

Well, this lot are the Scalbies.

Gotta have them as they have a role and a place in the great scheme of things, and some bugger's got to be at the bottom of the food chain. It's just that they're thieving buggers _I SAID, GO ON, SLING YOUR HOOK!._

We intended to stay longer but news reached us that will be of interest to the Guild, and which actively requires us to follow through without delay. For this reason we are regrettably changing our plan to visit Port Smith-Rhodes, although this is only deferred for now, and we may detour there later.

But more of this later.

After we had the pretend-fight with the party of braves and counted coup, they escorted ourselves and Dibbler's wagon back to their camp. Both of us were watching the defeated chief to see if he launched another real attack. Whilst he still seemed sullen and resentful, it appeared all the fight had been knocked out of him for the moment and he was riding along, seemingly quietly, some way from the others. But he definitely needed watching. He had been knocked down and lost face, but was not defeated. Trouble.

And so we arrived at the encampment, which smelt oddly reminiscent of parts of the Shades. The parts down near the river. The dwelling places are the roughly conical tents known as teepees, hides wrapped over long poles, the outside of which are painted with symbols and icons which advertise who dwells there, almost like house numbers on a street. There were arranged in rough circles around a central space like a square or a forum, which serves the same purpose. Seniority and status places the most important members of the society nearest the centre, with lesser-status people progressively nearer the Edge, and some way away and carefully downwind, a rather more squalid encampment populated by the resident Scalbie Indians. These are apparently tolerated to perform the lowliest tasks, rather like the Untouchable Dalit caste in Ghat. A large and roughly fenced enclosure corrals many horses, although there apprears to be no need for the fence apaprt form habit – the horses seem content to graze nearby to their human owners and are not inclined to stray. Older boys are assigned to guard and herd.

Oddly enough, one beast in the corral was actually a camel, wearing Klatchian harness and blankets. We wondered how it had got there. Dibbler shrugged.

"Way up Hubwards, miss. Well, the folk here call the direction "north". One of the four Cardinal Directions, the Quarters, the others being "South", that is, Rimwards. Then there's "East" and "West", that is, Widdershins and Turnwise. Something to do with an old legend about us all living on the outside of a ball floating unsupported in space, if you can believe that!"

He snorted with amusement. We remembered that this odd perception of the world keeps cropping up, despite the evidence of Disc, Elephants and Turtle. Strict-rule Omnians still believe it. (But out there somewhere, there genuinely is a Roundworld? And you and Ponder once visited?)

"We'd all fall off. Anyway, the Nations who range to the North have this sort of understanding with a Klatchian tribe called the D'Regs, miss. Blood-brothers sort of thing. They think like Indians and live like Indians, even if they're Brownfaces. Loose alliance, if the Klatchians ever send troops this way. We look out for each other, the thinking goes. So these odd creatures, what do you call them, Canoes of the Sand Country, crop up from time to time. Horses with humps. You gets medicine men after a long session on the peace-pipe going out and seeking to commune with them. They comes back having had a Vision Quest in the Netherworld of Numbers, though they tends to burble on a bit."

Dibbler thought for a moment.

"And they comes back smothered in camel-spit. So it goes."

Dibbler assured us our horses and mules would be safe so long as the Scalbies were beaten off them. A couple of boys were detailed to do the looking after. We accepted this, and were led to the central forum.

A half-circle of Chiefs were seated on the ground and were regarding us with solemn impassivity. We realised that visible status in this society is conferred by the number of feathers a man wears in his bonnet. And there were a lot of feathers here. The greatest number of feathers in his cap were worn by an older man in his fifties, who seemed, while a little bit unfocused somehow, not to be too pleased with our presence. He stood, and conferred briefly with the hapless sub-chief who had tried to count coup on us and who had been painfully on the receiving end of Mariella's lance-haft.

The sub-chief looked over at us, expressed a look of chilling anger at Mariella, and accounted for himself. The Chief nodded and dismissed him. The humbled warrior, _{{Wasting Disease of Iron When Exposed To Water}}_ , who I shall simply call "Rust", slouched off to a lesser position in a widening and deepening circle of warriors who were regarding us with interest, and who were closing in around us. His attitude did not seem friendly. I gathered his new position was now very much lesser than it had been before he met Mariella. Dibbler translated for us.

"Strange warrior women from a foreign tribe. Why should I welcome you to my camp or offer you hospitality? I am minded to put you to warrior tests, you who assume equality with fighting men of the Nation"

"So they're pleased to see us, then." Mariella said.

"Isn't as bad as it seems, miss." Dibbler said. "My guess is he's a bit tetchy right now because…"

And then the circle opened and She arrived. A woman treated with utmost respect by the tribe. The Medicine Woman, Anana Ogglala, the embodied Heart of the Ogglala Nation.

A woman short in build, wide about bosom and hips, about sixty, in braided and colourful dress and holding what looked like some sort of maracas (Mariella thought ocarinas, but don't you blow down those?), rattling sticks that made a noise when shaken. Looking like an animated prune, she shuffled forward in a ritual dance, shuffling round us and singing in a sonorous voice, taking care to hold our gaze and seek to read our faces, all the time rattling her instruments and singing what I took to be some sort of ritual hymn of her people, a song of power, perhaps. I had the feeling of being in the presence of a very shrewd and intelligent woman who knew how to read people, and who was testing us out.

Dibbler whispered

"She's invoking her tutelary animal spirit, miss. Asking the power of her Guide to read you correctly and advise her son, the Chief, as to how to deal with you."

"Which animal?" Mariella asked.

"The Great Manitou of the Porcupine Nation, miss. The Song is of the wise all-knowing spirit who saunters with confidence through the Netherworlds, knowing as how he'll never be troubled in a certain way, if you gets my drift."

We tried to be impassive and not to show concern or threat as the small fat elderly woman shuffled round us singing, examining us from all angles. Then finally she stepped back and stood in front of her son, the Chief. She pointed one of her rattling sticks at Dibbler. He got the hint, and translated her words as she stared at Mariella in an unfriendly way.

" _{{Very Pale-Skinned Female with Unsightly Skin Blemishes And Most Unbecoming Flame-Coloured Hair.}}"_ Dibbler repeated.

Mariella looked at him.

"It means something like _Ginger with Freckles_ , miss." he said. "Hold on, now she's sayin'… Warrior girl from the crazy land to the South. The land of white-skinned people who think their pale skin makes them superior. Girl trained as warrior, girl trained to kill, girl who is part of warrior caste. What makes you think you or any of your people are welcome here in these lands when you came with violence and darkness to conquer us and make us your servants, one level below you but somehow higher than the black skins of the buffalo people? You Reverser People are bad medicine in this country!"

"She really is pleased to see me, then." Mariella said.

"I did say, miss. People round here got long memories. Hold on…"

The old woman was looking at me.

" _{{Girl Like Small Decumbent Opuntian Fruit Of The B_ _rachyarthran Nation_ _, Small Seemingly Inoffensive Growth But Heap Big Sting}}!"_

I looked at Dibbler.

"Errr… think of it as Prickly Pear, miss. That's a sort of cactus grows round these parts." he said, helpfully. I remembered the name the Goblins gave me many years ago. So I'm a cactus. Gevalt.

"Girl of the tribe of the Cenotians. Warrior nation. Argue much among themselves, but fight for their nation against the Klatchians. Took many Klatchian scalps. We got some Cenotians here. They get everywhere. We're tolerant. You're okay." Dibbler said.

"Show me a place that doesn't have Cenotians." Mariella said. The old woman turned to her. She spoke again.

"Prove to me you're not a threat." he translated.

Mariella shrugged.

"Sorry. I can't." she said. "A hundred years ago my people invaded these lands. I saw the battlefield where we were defeated. But we learnt and until yesterday, none of us came back. I'm probably the first."

She nodded to the old woman.

"What can I say? One of me. A couple of hundred of you. How big a threat is that? It's in my best interests not to be a threat. And I'm in your hands."

Dibbler translated her words. The old woman stepped forward and stared into Mariella's eyes. It was really quite intimidating. Then she conferred briefly with her son, the Chief. He looked at Mariella in a way suggesting he was having a headache and she was the cause. He spoke.

His mother repeated the words.

Dibbler went a little pale and translated.

"He said there's always the option of sending you on a Vision Quest, miss. Err.."

"And a Vision Quest is?" she asked. "I see you can pronounce capital letters, by the way."

"It's, err, a sort of warrior ordeal, miss. Where you get to see who your personal spirit guides are and you might even get a prophecy or two about the future. Err."

He gulped.

"Chiefy says they don't normally let women do the Sun Dance. Decency, see, as you has to be stripped to the waist. Anana says they'd let you wear a bra, though. Special concession. Errr. She asks if you don't mind a warrior scar or two? Mark of status, warrior scars. Scars gets you respect."

"Is that so?" Mariella said, although she pronounced it _Izzatso_? Now when I hear one of you say that, it means you've seen an angle you can exploit. And then when she said _jislaik!_ And _ja-nie?_ in fast succession, I knew she had a good idea.

Then she took off one boot and her sock and rolled her trouser leg up. Neither of us has taken her boots or socks off for a day or two. I tried not to stand too close, as she lifted her leg. We really needed a river or a stream to wash in. Not that it worried the Indians.

Anana and the Chief stepped forward to look.

Mariella lifted her leg. The one that Preet du Plessis put a crossbow bolt through. Matron Igorina had apologised that she'd always have a matching set of scars. And there they were. The entry and exit wounds of a barbed crossbow bolt. **(3)** Igorina had done the best she could but Igors are temperamentally opposed to completely healing anyone's scars. Advertising, they say. If you don't leave some sort of scar, how will anyone know an Igor was ever there?

Anana knelt down to look. Her son the Chief smiled for the first time.

Dibbler urgently said

"Make a song of it, miss! They don't need to get the words. But if you sings of the great battle in which you got the wound. They likes that sort of thing. Your personal warrior song, miss!"

Inevitable, really. She stood proudly and gave them a verse and a chorus of the Vondalaand Hymn. With hand gestures. Indicating her leg on the line about "they promise pain and hurt". It got the equivalent of a standing ovation. Well. It's hole music, isn't it? Goes straight to the gut and bypasses the brain. Works everywhere.

Then Anana Ogg grinned.

"You done well, girl." she said. **In Morporkian**. "Now put your sock and your boot back on, and roll your pants leg down. You looks a bit lopsided standin' there on one leg like that. We'd offer you a peace-pipe, but my lad here's a bit tetchy as he's run out of the special smoking herb, and don't know where to get some more. He got lads out lookin' though. Don't suppose you've got any on the cart, Mr Dibbler?"

It was now my turn to say _Izzatso_? I'd seen that vaguely unfocused look before. On Miriam. And she'd given us a large block of…

I said that I believed I might be able to help out there. Could I go to my saddlebags and find a small gift of our personal appreciation to the mighty chief in return for his good favour?

Some minutes later, I returned with a piece – not all of it, just a piece I judged big enough – of the bhong resin Miriam had so thoughtfully given us. I presented it to the chief with ceremony. He looked puzzled for a moment, then lifted it and sniffed. His face lit up in an enormous smile.

 _{{This heap good shit!}}_ he said. I remembered what Miriam had demonstrated about how you warmed and flaked the resin into the hookah. She had also said you could smoke it mixed with tobacco. I said this to Anana, who understood.

"We do it that way in the old peace pipe." she said. "With other smoking herbs. Well, Prickly Pear Girl. Well, Ginger with Freckles. You're off the hook."

She grinned. "Or in your case, the two hooks. The two hooks what is necessary for the Sun Dance. Never seen it done on a woman, but the idea's broadly the same. And you got Sonny Jim here in a good mood. Come and have a bite of pemmican, fairly fresh, got it off a buffalo."

We even got to brew some coffee.

Anana Ogg apologised for putting us through it, but she'd wanted to test us, give us a bit of an Ordeal and see what we was made of. Have us sweat a bit.

"'Sides, I saw you was Assassins. Girls as Assassins came after my time. But when I was younger, went on me own Vision Quest to find wisdom in a faraway land, you never seem to get it nearer Home for some reason, and lived in Ankh-Morpork for twenty year. Seen loads of Assassins. Haughty buggers mainly, but seems to have changed a bit. You got it writ all over you."

She'd been in the City just after the time of Lord Snapcase and witnessed the first few years of Vetinari's rule.

"Lots of us Indians there from various Nations. Even the bloody Apaches. Could tell you loads about them." (She did, too. Report attached.)

"Ankh-Morpork draws people in. Like that stone. Attracts iron. No surprise it pulls Cenotians. Them bugg – _you people_ – get everywhere. And you crazy Vondalander people."

She grinned at Mariella from a mouth that had few teeth.

"Did I mention we got Cenotians here? Introduce you later. They got their own religion and customs, we don't interfere, but they're of our Nation too. Hunting Bear Klein and his clan. Worker-of-Doeskins Kowalski, he'll run you up a natty set of buckskins for the right wampum. Sort of thing."

She smiled. "Knew you was coming. We had people out watchin' you, bringin' back reports. When you was on the Sacred site the other day. Had one of our best trackers observin' what you was up to. When we realised you was layin' those old bones to rest according to the customs of your people, and behavin' with respect, I thought, well, they're okay, seem like a good pair of young girls. Had to make sure and find out what you was made of, so I had {{Rust}} and a warband test you out."

Anana looked serious.

"Watch him, Ginger-with-Freckles. He really don't like you. You ain't done with him yet. He lost face, see? Hey, is that peace pipe comin' down this way yet?"

We took very small token draws, as custom and good manners dictate, then passed the pipe to Anana. The afternoon passed happily.

And then the winged white horse appeared.

Anana looked up with interest.

"I seen them before. In the sky. But they never usually stops here."

She nudged me.

"Heap powerful medicine you two called down here. They'll _remember_ this!"

Other Indians were looking up with interest. The horse spiralled down and drew closer, then landed. It was Nottie.

"Hey, you two!" she said.

"How did you find us?" Mariella asked. Nottie indicated the Feegle in the mane. Who was not the usual one she flies with. This particular Feegle stood up in the mane and looked at Anana with something of mutual respect as between equals. Anana was silent and looked back. Then both bowed to each other.

"I never met you people before." Anana said. "But I knew Eunice Proust when I was in Ankh-Morpork. Learnt from her."

We noted this. Anana Ogglala, then, was a Witch. We were not surprised.

Officer Kirstie of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch is that rare thing, of course. A girl Feegle. We learnt how this works: one of seven sisters, an unprecedented thing in Feegle society, she had decided her people didn't need her to found a Clan just yet, and she had gone out, not-a-Kelda, to see the world. And became a Watchwoman.

"We both have the Seeing, Kelda of her folk." Kirstie said, politely. "We should talk."

"My tepee is yours, sister." replied Anana. "But do me a favour, and leave your brothers outside."

We realised a Kelda always gets an escort. In this case, three or four male Feegle. It's unthinkable for even a not-Kelda to not have her guard. Sam Vimes had apparently made the best he could of this and placed her Feegle guard under the care of Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur, to at least _try_ to make Special Watchmen of them so as to police the Little People beats.

Nottie grinned.

"Your sister had the idea, Mariella. She suggested that since male Feegle only seem to be able to home in on _places_ and because we're looking for two specific people in one very big place, we should think differently."

"We have a different gift." Kirstie said, in her gentle and pleasant voice. Like a more refined Feegle accent. "A Kelda can craw-step to a person. Johanna showed me things of yours, with your personality on them, and that enabled me to read the high airs and come straight to you. She sends love and best wishes. There are things for you in the saddlebags."

The three, two Witches and a not-Kelda, went off to talk business. We got to read the latest despatches, including news of the Guild. Thank you for the recent newspapers, magazines, and the cards and Travel Word Scramble set. Much appreciated!

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

Thank you for the survival kit and the updates from Home.

I even thank you for the copies of _**Bu-Bubble**_ and _**Modern Young Woman.**_ Even trivial things like this which are aimed at young women of a different turn of mind and outlook act as anchors back to the real world, and it cannot be denied that as students, copies of BB and MYW used to circulate around the dorms and be read avidly, despite warnings from disapproving teachers that they were mind-rotting things directed at frivolous minds. We quite enjoyed letting our minds descend into occasional harmless frivolity.

And when read, can be used as kindling for camp fires, a consideration.

But really, Johanna. Is this your sense of humour again?

MYW in particular was really popular among us for its _Man of the Month_ feature, with its in-depth profiles of popular and attractive young men who were outstanding in their fields of excellence – and the copious amount of iconographs of the featured young man, usually full-colour, full-page and ideally showing him in at least partial undress. Lots of those pictures ended up being cut out and used to adorn personal space in the dorms. (Well, all girls can dream, preferably in full colour moving pictures with an "adults only" tinge to them).

But I put it to you that when the desirable Hunk of the Month for the current issue turns out to be **our own brother**!

I mean. My brother Danie. Described in the most gushing terms as the muscly, red-haired, hunk of pure man who proudly leads the Ankh-Morpork Springboeks team out on a Saturday afternoon and who got his entire shirt ripped off in a bad tackle from one of the Ankh-Morpork Hergenian side in a recent game," fortunately our iconographer was in the right place at the right time to capture the action!" … this rather puts you off somewhat.

Your own brother. Squicky, or what!

Rivka was quite taken with it, though. "Lucky Heidi", she said. Then she took the magazine away to study it at some length.

At least the article emphasized this and pointed out that the heavenly Danie Smith-Rhodes is more than spoken for by his Assassin fiancée Miss Heidi van Kruger, who we understand is soon to become the second Mrs Smith-Rhodes in the Guild School, so it may not be healthy to seek to get too close to him…

Have you sent a copy to Mother, who likes to be kept informed?

You have, haven't you?

Well. I should really tell you that my ordeals in this camp were not over. I was challenged to a fight by the sub-chief I had mortally offended, who Rivka calls "Rust". I understood from his demeanour that he'd quite appreciate a no-quarter fight to the death.

Well.

I'm still here to write this.

And then there's the way Rivka earned her warrior headband with feathers. I got one too. With less feathers. We may send them back to you for safekeeping, as very soon we will be in the jungle. We hope to sort out everything which will not be needed for this leg and send it back to you, as the horses cannot follow us into the deep jungle, and hopefully Smith-Rhodesia is on the other side and we will then be Home (at least for me), and able to travel in greater civilized comfort..

Again pursuing the idiot and _doos_ and _bliksem_ Horst Lensen, who has reappeared. Time is running out to get him to Pratoria. We may need Guild advice on this and should report.

If we can see Lensen over the border as far as New Scrote, then he will be a commercial carpet ride away from Pratoria and still able to report in before his deadline – just. And, Gods help us, to get his Pink Slip, if he is then judged worthy. Can Piet Retief be so advised at the Pratoria bureau of the Guild?

I have acquired the typical Ogglala Indian costume for young girlchildren, for Bekki and Famke. You may need to adequately launder this on arrival, as washing of clothing does not seem to be too great a priority here. It is in as close to a sealed bag as I can contrive but should be okay for wear after cleaning and possibly fumigation.

With love, more to follow to expand on these urgent key points,

Sister and aunt

Mariella

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Ankh-Morporkian neighbours complained about all that bloody foreign food stinking out the area, bleeding immigrants, with their habit of cookin' foul foreign food like them big sausages with too much actual _meat_ in them, can't be good for you, and viciously talkin' in Foreign even though they were perfectly capable of good Morporkian, well _, sort of_ good Morporkian. ( However, immediate neighbours invited to share a few brikkies and a yard of 'wois as well as a lekker beer had begun to realise there were advantages). Danie had quickly ascended to the coveted status of Tongmaster, as well as the fly-half position (Americans; think "star quarterback" – same vibe) in the Ankh-Morpork Springboeks fifteen-a-side Llamedosian Rules Foot-The Ball team. The Bokkies were a rated team who regularly challenged for top spot in the City's league tables. Johanna was able to report back to Home, with some satisfaction, that her brother had assimilated well. Although if she or Heidi or on occassion Mariella were to visit, typical bachelor quarters, shared by a group of cheerful young men without a woman in sight, could make them shudder. Johanna (backed up by Heidi and Mariella) had threatened to hire crack commando cleaners if they didn't shape up.

 **(2)** A loose translation of _**Tannie Tina van Wyk.**_ The video is… well, Auntie Tina and Uncle Feilis are _**zefs**_. (Look on youTube for the full unedifying Afrikaans-language horror of Tannie Tina. She looks like a Saffie take on Paul O'Grady's Lily Savage.) The condition of bbeing a Zef? Think Essex, or New Jersey, but with Saffie accents. And damn, it's another ear-worm. The official version has relatively clean lyrics, but I'm just betting there are non-broadcastable versions out there. Just made to be a rugby song, I think, in a country such as South Africa, where the national sense of humour is both robust and unsophisticated. **EDIT** – just discovered the American state of New Jersey _**actually has**_ an Essex County. Given the notorious associations of NJ to the rest of the USA, and the county of Essex as perceived by the rest of Britain, and the fact NJ and Essex could well be twined. Essex County in New Jersey must be like a refined and concentrated hotspot for all the up To Eleven prejudices about both places… a Möbius recursive Essex/Joisey with all that implies.

The concept, of people living the state of mind for which "Joisey" and "Essex chav" are stereotypes, is called a Zef in South Africa.

There's also another catchy song and interesting video about a girl called **_Plain Jain from Magersfontein_ ** who wins the heart of a farmer against stiff opposition. Damn. Heidi van Kruger can now only come from Magersfontein. Or Marcus Fontaine. Or Margot Fontayne. you know, where Boris Kriger and Stan Your Man also come from. Where you put drag on a lion.

 **(3)** Refer to the tale _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum.** _

**Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Crossword generated character names;**

 **Pathetic Stevens**

 **Meaculpa Green**

 **Porous Boston**

 **Moratoria Johnson**

 **Benito Aniseed-Balls**

 **Rollo Ocarinas**

 **Nonagon Mussolini**

 **Unsafe Rhodesia….**

 **One for a forthcoming Hub-directed adventure in which a motley party might be sent on a mission to Hubsvensska and the neighbouring country of the crazy Swommi people, who use "** _ **Perkkele**_ **" in much the same variably metasyntactical way in which the librarian says "** _ **oook!**_ **" or Gaspode says "** _ **wossname**_ **".**

Finnish beer " _Lapin kulta_ " (Lappland's gold) has many names, but is mainly known as " _ **poron kusi**_ " (reindeer piss). Americans tend to like it. People who drink beer for flavour tend to hate it. At least it does have ethanol.

Certain Finnish wines and liquors tend to have Black Humor nicknames, such as Gambina - _Kampiviina_ (Cranky Booze), Bordeaux Blanc - _Porvoon Lankku_ (Porvoo Plank), Helmeilevä Omenaviini - _Hölmöilevä Omenaliima_ (Loonie Apple Glue), Pöytäviina - _Pöytäliima_ (Table Glue), Fernet Branca - _Rotanmyrkky_ (Rat Poison) etc.


	21. moving on again

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-one:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **We are on the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. It is high summer, June - July. In which First Contact is made with a very singular Tribe.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _August 14th The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon._

Hi Johanna!

Well, after many eventful adventures and a short trip through the jungle belt, we are now guests in the town of Chirundu in the interestingly-named semi-autonomous state of Smith-Rhodesia. In fact, because of the unorthodox method of our arrival and the direction from which we travelled, we were briefly taken for unwelcome illegal border-crossers and the three of us (Yes. Three.) were detained on arrival for questioning. Apparently, we should have crossed in the approved manner at the Otto Beit Bridge and petitioned for admission at the heavily fortified customs and border guard station on the Smith-Rhodesian side. As at the time we were being pursued by a determined impi of Zulu soldiers, we pointed out that while the Smith-Rhodesian authorities were making their minds up as to whether or not we were legitimate travellers, it could very quickly have become an academic point. But more of this later.

Chirundu is right at the very Hubwards extremity of the confederation of states known as The Union of Rimwards Howondaland. It marks the furthest Hubwards extension of your peoples and is essentially the place where the Boors and others could no longer Trek. It is largely reclaimed from the surrounding wild forests and jungles your great ancestor encountered According to the standard history, this place marks where the white man civilized the wilderness and brought it into prosperity, despite unfriendly and hostile natives in need of Civilisation, where a wilderness neglected for millennia by the blacks (thus proving their inferior status) was brought into prosperity and bloom.

I suspect this is not the whole story.

The town marks the only possible river crossings over the B'Ware and Brown rivers, which converge here into the Lake M'Boli system, known to White Howondalandians as Lake Karibou. This wide lake system is many miles wide, almost an inland sea, and flows to the majestic Verrucania Falls **(1).** (Or so we are told: we won't get to see them on this trip.)

Chirundu, the only place where the rivers might be forded, say by a large army composed of either Matabeles or Zulus, is therefore of strategic importance. The town thus has the appearance of a very large Army barracks with a settlement attached as an afterthought. The people here have a mentality akin to a garrison besieged in a fortress.

Immediately over the river is the notionally independent Howondalandian state of Urabewe. This very minor kingdom is sandwiched in between the Matabele Kingdom and the Zulu Empire, and is allowed to exist as the two great Black Howondalandian powers agree that the less direct contiguous border they have, the better. Rather like Djelibeybi persisting beyond all reason long after its time, because both Tsort and Ephebe agreed there were advantages to a neutral "buffer zone" in between them.

Urabewe has a sort of peace treaty with Rimwards Howondaland and a degree of trade and mutual interaction goes on – hence the freedom to travel between the two countries via the Otto Beit Bridge. Manufactured goods out of Rimwards Howondaland go one way; a reserve of dependable cheap labour, hired for the day and strictly vetted, comes the other. The Urabewian economy – at bottom, the daily wages of many of its citizens - depends on the goodwill of all three of its neighbours, and its leaders dance on a very narrow wire. But the country is powerless in itself with no standing army and perhaps a handful of ramshackle patrol boats (the obsolescent hand-me-downs of the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy, provided as "goodwill aid") policing the maritime border on the Lake. As we discovered, Matabele and Zulu troops come and go through Urabewian territory as they will at need or whim. And oh, did we ever discover this.

We do not plan to stay here very long and in fact, arrangements are being made for us to take passage to New Scrote, the state capital.

Mariella has said she will brief you on events concerning our stay with the Indians and our passage into the wild jungles.

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

* * *

 _ **meanwhile, some weeks earlier:** _

_**Pages from the journal of Ginger-With-Freckles, Ogglala warrior (honorary)**_

July, at Sprained Ankle, catching up on my writing

Hi, Johanna!

We only got to spend less than a week with the Ogglala Indians. But as it turned out, it was a very eventful week. We had intended longer, but Events Intervened.

The first event was on the evening of our arrival and acceptance by the Indians. One Indian, the sub-chief called {{Rust}} who I had caused to lose face, was clearly fuming with resentment at my humbling of him and keen to even the score. This led to a confrontation. We had been spending time with Nottie Garlick, who was looking for Officer Kirstie's retinue of escorting Feegles. They had disappeared somewhere in the sprawl of teepees, no doubt looking for something to plunder or else for unguarded firewater.

Kirstie herself was still concluding deep Witch to Not-A-Kelda business with Anana Ogglala; as a very much junior Witch, Nottie had been asked to go and find something else to be busy with for an hour or two. Locating the stray Feegles, rather than leave them stranded in Howondaland when she flew back, was important. The Indians might not have appreciated this, for one thing. We tagged along. I haven't met that many Feegle and I find them to be interesting people.

Between us we ruled out the obvious place – the back of Dibbler's cart where he apparently keeps a stock of what he is pleased to call "firewater". Then again, Feegle seem to prefer stronger drink than that.

We have a couple of flasks of Klatchian Orakh in our travelling bags. We thought it might be useful for emergencies, say as anaesthetic or for sterilisation in the event of medical intervention being necessary.

But no Feegle here either.

We eventually found them admiring the tribe's totem pole, apparently the focus for the religious devotions of the Indian people.

Well, they were climbing it and swinging off the stylized eagle wings at the top, nearly twenty feet up. I wondered, briefly, how High Priest Ridcully might react to tourists climbing the Great Devotional Statue of Blind Io in the Temple, and swinging on the thunderbolt being poised in His right hand to deliver divine wrath. And how the Great God Blind Io Himself might react to that.

Nottie called them down, after doing the thing with her palm and her forehead.

"This isn't a bloody adventure playground!" she said, amongst other well-chosen rebukes. We watched as half a dozen Feegle meekly did as they were told and stood with their heads hanging. If Rivka or I had attempted anything like that, it would have passed the event horizon of overconfidence and into the Other Thing which stands beyond.

"Ay, weel, mistress." said the spokesFeegle. "We was looking round, ye ken, taking in the ambience of a different civilization, you might say, and we saw this…"

"Aye, Mistress. And then Wee Scunner Hamish here says, must ha' been one strong bigjob tae have thrown a caber that size, and getting it tae land upright like that takes skill and pree-cision…"

"And what wi' our Kelda bein' safe in the croft of yon local Hag, we thought, weel, let's have some us-time, let's dae it, and climb the thing…"

Nottie breathed out.

"No harm done." she said. "Now let's get back, shall we? They might get intense about foreigners and women being in their religious places. Trust me. Local customs can get tricky."

The Feegle grinned at us.

"Hey, Prickly Pear Girl and Ginger-With-Freckles!" one called.

"Hey, Jock! Ye got to be careful with they Assassin lassies!"

"Ye ken? Ye know when one of they Rust whelps tried tae inhume a Feegle mound? And the lads there stitched her up a treat? **"(2)**

We'd heard about that. It might have been Deborah or it might have been Lucinda Rust, but that is an example of going past over-confidence and into the next area, the rarefied zone that very few Assassins, be they students or graduates, ever attain. **(3)** Thank you for telling us about that strictly unofficial prize you confer among your peers in the Staffroom, by the way. Trying to inhume an entire Feegle clan all at once. Only a Rust. Was it a try for the Teatime Prize? A true Darwin Award twice over, as the Feegle would not qualify for the entry qualifications of the Teatime?

But we got on with the Feegle. Who would, I suspect, be difficult people in a fight. (Has anyone in the Guild studied them? Would anyone want to take out a contract on the NacMacFeegle, and would the Guild ever accept one? There must be a strategy.)

And then our way was blocked by the warrior {{Rust}} and some of his cronies. He addressed me in a voice dripping with hate. I couldn't understand a word, but the implications were clear. Nottie and Rivka looked as if they were prepared to get into a fight alongside me and there was a definite chilling in the atmosphere. I felt a nudge in the area of my left ankle and glanced quickly down. A small, wide and muscly Feegle, one who had not spoken so far, looked up at me.

"Ye has a fight, lady." he said. "Yon bravo wants your ugly red hair for a trophy. His words."

I understood. Fight and win, or be scalped. Other Indians were arriving, making the inevitable widening circle that marked an arena. They included the Chief, Anana Ogg, and Officer Kirstie. Without a word, the half-dozen or so escorting Feegle sped over to do the bodyguarding thing for her. Even though I was watching {{Rust}} intently, I registered the effect the Feegle were having on those who hadn't seen them before. More powerful medicine brought about by the paleskin women, I hoped.

"It's got to be single combat." I heard Rivka say, in a low voice. "don't worry. I'll get him if it looks like you're in trouble."

And they stood back.

Then {{Rust}} was whooping and leaping at me with his tomahawk raised. As you once said during an Unothodox Combat lecture, it makes it so much easier if the other person signals their mode of attack.

I didn't even need to draw my machete. It was so easy to sidestep, grab his weapon arm, unbalance him and send him sprawling. The watching Indians whooped appreciation. I gathered that {{Rust}} is not universally liked.

Then he was up again – incredibly quickly – and leaping for me again. I heard a voice say "Mariella! You've got to do this so they can see! Draw your sword!"

I barely had time to block his rush with the tomahawk, a crude weapon with a stone head lashed to a wooden handle. He was strong, but untutored. To be honest, I was wondering how to be seen to win this fight without killing him. Then, as he rushed at me again, I realized this was the wrong sort of thinking. I had to defeat him. If the defeat involved killing him, I could worry about that later.

I stepped aside again and brought up my machete. The fast draw which is also a defence, as Madame Emmanuelle taught. I did not want to hit the stone head of the crude axe, as that can damage the blade. But the blade caught the wooden handle beneath the head; the shock of impact was jarring, but it was wrenched from his fingers and flew off to the left.

{{Rust}} looked consternated and tried to work his hand; I wondered if I'd damaged his fingers. Then he dived and rolled for the hand-axe. His agility was amazing. The effect was somewhat spoilt when he retrieved the weapon and stood up. With a very pleasing effect, the weight of the head caused the weapon to wobble unsteadily, then the head of the axe fell to one side and dangled uselessly from the handle, attached only by a residual strip of broken wood. I'd managed to only partially hack through it, but that was enough: the sight of the Indian warrior looking to his weapon, realizing, and a look of triumph fading to be replaced by one of perplexed frustration at a useless hand-axe, was comical. A couple of hundred spectators began laughing.

This made him really angry. He threw the useless axe down with a roar of anger, and drew the dagger he carried at his waist. Then leapt at me again.

This time I didn't bother with my machete.

As you taught us, people coming at you with knives expect you to run or evade. The last thing they expect is for you to step forward inside their reach. This meant the knife went wide and I could ball up my left fist and punch him. As you say, it hurts whatever you do. But {{Rust}} reeled back, felt his face with shock and alarm, and reacted badly to his own blood welling from between his fingers. Indians tend to have big aquiline noses.

As his knife dropped, I tripped him and threw him to the ground. Then he had the point of my machete at his throat.

I was angry, yes, but a little voice was urging restraint. What did I do now? Did this man have a wife – a squaw – and children? Was I now expected to finish the task and inhume him? What did local custom expect?

I looked to the Chief. And to Anana Ogg. Both stood there, impassive, with arms folded. Mr Dibbler the Third was also there, twirling his absurd animal-fur cap in front of him, looking consternated and worried. I called to him.

"Translate for me! Tell the Chief I will do as he asks in this matter. I do not wish to deprive him of a warrior for his war-party and weaken his Tribe."

I hope I'd guessed correctly. The Chief heard and nodded.

"But let it be heard. This man has come against me twice. I have defeated him twice. I will let him live. This time. But if he comes at me for a third time with intent to kill, _then I will kill him!_ Let that be understood!"

There was general acclaim as the words were translated and relayed.

Anana Ogglala grinned broadly.

"You did good, Ginger-with-Freckles." she said. "You got warrior status now, for sure!"

{{Rust}} was taken away for a stern word from his Chief – we learn later he was being exiled from the Camp to dwell in the Scalbie enclosure for a few weeks, so as to learn humility and reflect on letting his confidence outstrip his ability to see trouble coming. The Scalbies apparently do the dirty work here but are forced to live in their own segregated enclosure on the edge of the camp. They must retreat there at nightfall.

"Ah. A township." I said, when later in the evening, Anana Ogglala made some cutting comment concerning apartheid policy in our country. But an evolved and ethical society like the Plains Indians wouldn't have any sort of apartheid policy, of course!

Kirstie and Anana fixed {{Rust}}'s broken nose. Her Feegle guard came up to congratulate me on a good fight well fought, lassie, and you really pit the hems on yon dirty great bauchle scunner, nae bother!

"Aye." Said the one known as Silent Bob, for he rarely speaks and when he does it's direct and to the point. "Bigjob Lassie has the red hair, though. Redheid bigjobs. Human Feegle."

The Feegle then spoke about yon redhead lassie at the Guild of Assassins. You know. Special constable of the Watch, aye. You'd no want tae offend _her_. I wonder who they could possibly mean, Johanna?

Then agreed that I must be kin, Aye. Yon two lassies are kin.

Silent Bob, after long thought, opined that we works for Hags, who have a special twist in the heid that makes a bigjob woman into a Hag. Foreby, do Assassin lassies have the same twist inside the heid, but in a different direction?

Something to consider. After Nottie and Kirstie and the Feegles flew back to the City, we remained as guests in Anana's teepee. We shared our trail rations and she provided some foodstuffs that were not meat, and relaxed with a good hostess.

"One thing I learnt on me Vision Quest in Ankh-Morpork". Anana said. "Your kind of fighting where you sort of close your fist and use it as a weapon is completely un-known around here. It shocks people to get punched. They don't know it, see. No defence. But you still did well."

She took a drink of the tea we'd brought with us.

"Nice taste. Soothing. Could you trade some of this when you leaves? It gets more-ish. Can't get it round here often. That and sugar."

Anana likes tea with four sugars, by the way.

"Reminds me. You ain't the first of your people to come this way. About a month ago. This young lad comes ridin' in on a, what do you call it, a canoe of the sand country? Camel. That's the word. Yeah. Still got it here."

We started to pay attention.

"Pale skin, but tanned. Got that hair colour of sunbleached dead grass. Lots of you people have that. Bit of a twonker. And one of _your_ bloody lot." she said, looking at me.

"So some of the lads brings him in and we questions him. Like we did with you. Got an attitude on him. Apparently he's got to get back to the Vondalaander country by a certain date and he's only passin' through, so can he get on his way? Anyway, we reminded him of his lot's attitude towards we mere _coloured people_ and said as how we don't appreciate it very much, and my lad Chief Two-Horses **(4)** went for a ponder on the peace-pipe. Then when he come back he said as how Blond-Boy-Pain-In-The-Arse – what's your people's word, Ginger-With-Freckles? _Bliksem?_ And _Doosis, Pielkop, Draadtrekker_ … slow down a sec, good words, good words, from the heart, I sees…. Anyhow, my lad says as how he was going to leave it to the Gods to decide. So our guest was going to get a great honour, granted to few palefaces, and go on a Vision Quest. Might even learn a bit of wisdom, if he lives. After that, we'd give him a horse and supplies and an escort and point him in the right direction. Go due Rimwards from Sprained Ankle, and don't even _think_ of comin' back."

"If he lives?" Rivka asked.

"We give him the Sun Dance." Anana said. "And fair play, he lived. Got some strength and determination in him, that lad. Traded his camel for a good horse, and we sent him on near three weeks since. If he gets through the deep forest and the really dark thick green stuff on the other side, where nobody of the Indian nations goes or cares to go, he's home, in't he, in your crazy _kemosabie_ Vondalaander country?"

The Guild should know this.

Horst Lensen managed to get away from Miriam (or maybe she pushed him in the correct direction when she got tired of him) and he evidently managed to cross the sub-Nef and get into the Great Plains. Now he is somewhere ahead of us attempting the crossing of the Jungle. We may meet him again soon.

Considering that the next morning we saw for ourselves what the Sun Dance is and what it entails. We can only say that a non-Indian who has the strength of will and the fortitude to survive this ordeal must have hidden depths and resources of mind and character. Even though Horst Lensen must be coming close to his deadline, in all fairness and honesty we have to report to the Guild that he appears to have demonstrated amazing reserves of strength and determination. With one very deep breath. Fairness dictates this must be taken into consideration when the final decision on his Assassin status is made. Rivka, who also with me witnessed several braves of the Ogglala undergoing this ordeal over the next few days, wholly agrees with me. Are we still classed as his informal examiners, by the way?

The Sun Dance is a terrible thing. It is like the spring dance of the maypole in the Central Continent, but re-envisioned by Elves. (touches metal). A high pole is established and long ropes of animal hide are attached to the top. At the end of each rope is a hook and this hook is skewered through the chest muscles on each side, at the top of the chest. Blood flow is immediate but not copious. It is cumulative over two or three days. The supplicant must then shuffle and move around the pole, at the full stretch of the ropes, sustained only by occasional sips of water, for as long as it takes for exhaustion, dehydration, blood loss and an altered state of consciousness to prevail. At the very least the chest is permanently scarred, although if the hooks are inserted in the correct places, no damage is done to mobility or use of the arms. The Indians are just and fair, in their way, and when the Sun Dancer has a vision, a communion with his Gods, he is cut down, passes on his vision to the Medicine Woman, and is allowed rest and healing.

We saw over the following days the terrible effect on the dancer. If Horst survived this and then rode on to complete his own trek, he deserves some admiration, idiot though he is. And I cannot help but reflect he brought it upon himself by being un-necessarily offensive to the Indian chief and his mother.

Conferring with Rivka, I feel we will now have to abandon our own journey to Port Smith-Rhodes and take the direct route, to see if we may follow him. Maybe even catch him up. A pity, as I wanted to see one of the (many) places my Family founded. But if we cross the Jungle we will, I think, soon see THE place associated with our Family. It will be interesting.

Thank you for the potatoes sent with Olga and Kirstie when they returned. Rivka had been going through withdrawal symptoms. The oatmeal will be good for mealipap. And the carrots, parsnips, turnips and wahoonies. We gave the wahoonies to the Scalbie Indians when they came panhandling, by the way. It seemed fitting.

Dinner was a magnificent bison meat AND VEGETABLE! Stew.

We send these despatches back and await Guild guidance on the Lensen situation.

There is talk of a raiding Arapaho band in the area. They may try to raid here for squaws and horses. These mutual raids are a part of life on the Plains, allow the young braves to test themselves against each other, and apparently at any one time a proportion of the equine and female population is in flux between various Tribes of the Nation. (One squaw we talked to has a sort of overnight bag packed in case of this eventuality. She shrugged and said at least it offers some variety and interest.) This might be interesting. Rivka is checking her weapons and I think I should too.

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1** ) The adventurer then only known as Mr Cecil Smith-Rhodes made a point of naming the wild and majestic waterfall for the wife of the then Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Having taken care to bring an Official Artist on his campaign, he appended sketches and watercolours of the Falls to his report on having annexed the former native kingdom of Rumbabwe in the name of Ankh-Morpork, still the colonial ruler of the Caarp Territories. He also suggested a good name for the Falls. **(1.1** ) His knighthood came back almost by return of despatch.

 **1.1** The Falls had previously had a name, translating into Morporkian as _Place Where The Mighty Waters Of M'boli Fall Into The River Urabewe By Dictate Of The Water God M'Popo._ But as they were only natives, this didn't count.

 **(2)** In my tale _**The Lancre Caper.**_

 **(3)** Educators at the Assassins' Guild school thought that sometimes, the term _ **"overconfidence"**_ wasn't nearly descriptive enough. Just sometimes, a student did something so incredibly ill-advised, badly-considered or just spectacularly dense that the teacher who witnessed it _just had_ to share the account with their peers. A sort of "league table" was pinned up in the Staffroom with Name. House and a description of the circumstances leading that pupil to be considered for a non-coveted place in the Hall of Non-Fame. Called the Darwin Award after one especially memorable pupil (the Honourable Sebastian Darwin of Welcome Soap House), Lord Downey had vetoed any attempt to make _**The Darwin Award For Exceptional Stupidity**_ into anything official as "it would look bad".

 **(4)** A consequence of the first thing his mother saw on the other side of the tepee flap after giving birth. The Chief of the Ogglala insisted his name was Virile-Stallion-Servicing-Mare, as that's what his dear mum evidently meant. But to his people, he was Chief Two-Horses.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Notes on** _ **Rhodesia**_ **, as was, for Discworldization**

 **CHIRUNDU – border town in Rhodesia on the ZAMBEZI river, Zambia on the other side, linked by the Otto Beit Bridge and the scene of frequent clashes between Rhodesian Army and guerrillas of the ZANU/PPF and other random Scrabble-board accretions.**

 **Lake Karibu marking much of the border – crossings only by boat (the CDA has a Lake M'boli on the border of Urabewe and an unspecified Other Howondaland, The B'WARE river and the BROWN river. )**

 **Victoria Falls further West**

 **KANYEMBA further north also on the border.**

 **Makuti, Charai, Chinhoi, Kildoran, towns on the road to** _ **Salisbury/Harare**_ **("New Scrote")**

 **Chitungwiza, Chivhu, Gutu, (Interesting placename called "Triangle") BULAWAYO to the west, Mazvinghu, Rutenza, Beitbridge – then over the border into SA at Messina, LIMPOPO River**

" **Manicaland" – Maniac land)**

 **Vumba mountains, Europeanized**

 **Protea, the flame lily or fire-plant: massive bright red flowers fringed in vivid yellow, like living flames.**

 **P.K. van der Byl: extremely unpleasant Rhodesian Afrikaaner who practically ran the country on behalf of the increasingly out-of-touch-with-reality Ian Smith. Who had to manage the legacy of the founder, Cecil Rhodes, in the bleak-for-colonial-imperialism 1960's and 1970's. (blindingly obvious: Smith-Rhodes. What did Terry P intend to do with a character of this name? We'll never know…) Rhodesia was notorious for interpreting and applying apartheid on its black people in a way that made neighbouring South Africa seem both benign and liberal.**

Promoted to the cabinet in 1968, Van der Byl became a spokesman for the Rhodesian government and crafted a public image as a die-hard supporter of continued white minority rule. In 1974 he was made Minister of Foreign Affairs and Defence at a time when Rhodesia's only remaining ally, South Africa, was supplying military aid. His extreme views and brusque manner made him a surprising choice for a diplomat (a November 1976 profile in _The Times_ described him as "a man calculated to give offence" [1]). After offending the South African government, Van der Byl was removed from the Defence Ministry.

 **Pieter Kenyon Fleming-Voltelyn van der Byl, son of Pieter Voltelyn Graham van der Byl, South African "Minister of Native Affairs" in 1948 and an architect of apartheid.**

 _ **Bonus Lyric**_ **(If I can find and translate it) - to broaden my readers' minds about South African rock/pop music (although this one verges on C &W - please don't hold that against it, it's actually quite good and for those who can't get the lyrics in Afrikaans, the video tells an entertaining "farmer needs a wife" story, **_**Boer soek n'vrou**_ **.)**

Plain Jane - Ampie Du Preez

 **Damn, drawn a total blank on getting Afrikaans lyrics for this song. But from memory the chorus might run something like "Plain Jane, quiet, sane, a farmer's girl from Magersfontein!" and goes on to a line like "the kind of girl my heart desires".**

Also " _Soen my op my boepie_ " – kiss me on my belly(button)… more forgettable apart from the chorus, which kind of lends itself to communal song in the clubhouse following a match. With adapted lyrics.

The Twelve tribes of Israel (Biblical)

Reuben.

Simeon.

Levi (this priestly tribe did not receive a territory, and sometimes is not listed when the tribe of Joseph is listed as two separate tribes).

Judah.

Zebulun.

Issachar.

Dan.

Gad.

Asher.

Naphtali.

Joseph (often listed as two tribes named for his sons, Ephraim and Manasseh).

Benjamin.

So far so good. Ten tribes drop out of the story after exile to Babylon; two (Judah and Israel) are the only ones who remain, said to be the parents of today's Jewish people. Some weird stories get told of the ten lost tribes. Given some of the weird stories on which whole weird and alarmingly doctrinaire/dogmatic religions have been based, those Ten Lost Tribes might just as well have taken a seriously wrong turn in the desert and ended up on the Discworld. (Why not?) So we get Cenotia, the ten Tribes of Isaac:

Reuben.

Simeon.

Levi

Zebulun.

Issachar.

Dan.

Gad.

Asher.

Naphtali.

Benjamin.

To make it up to twelve again in a Discworld context…

McSweeney (long-established Cenotian tribe)

Ogg (and why not).

"Skjir jou wekht" (sounds like) – "fuck off!" in Dutch but not Afrikaans. Interesting! (Caspar de Vries on Hollandse versus Afrikaans)


	22. Going Up The Country

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-two:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **We have largely left the Great Central Howondalandian Plain/Prairie/Savannah/Veldt. Owing to lags and delays in communication between the remote wilds of Central/Rimwards Howondaland and Ankh-Morpork, the correspondence dates from several points on the Timeline and is presented much as our two intrepid travellers found time to scribble their interim reflections down for collection and transmission.**_

 _ **The travellers have, in the middle of August, arrived in the hegemony of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland, that federation of semi-autonomous provinces and States, or Staadts, governed at the highest level from the city of Pratoria (for political purposes), Bloemfontein (the centre of legal jurisdiction) and Caarp Town. (nominally the legislative capital, but a city in a very all-year-clement area and Home to some very influential people and their Families).**_

 _ **Smith-Rhodesia is the Hubwardsmost of these States, and enjoys a greater deal of autonomy than that of its neighbouring Transvaal and beyond that, Natal and the Free Orange State. In appearance it is like a blunt landlocked arrowhead spearing Hubwards into the continent of Howondaland, with the Matabele Kingdom as its neighbour to Widdershins and the Zulu Empire to its Turnwise. In the past there have been "border disputes" and "incursions" from both along a very long and largely hostile border. At its Hubwardsmost extremity is a relatively shorter border with the nominally independent Black Howondalandian kingdom of Urabewe, a small state sandwiched uncomfortably between its mighty neighbours and permitted to exist by all three as it constitutes a useful neutral zone.**_

 _ **For travellers from Hubwards who have good reason to avoid encountering either Zulus or Matabels in their own country, the only permissible route into Rimwards Howondaland and safety is therefore via Urabewe. This averts any possibility of a brief and eventful guided tour of the Execution Pits of Matabeleland, or ritual disembowelment for their comfort and convenience in the Afterlife being administered by Zulus.**_

 _ **Once in Smith-Rhodesia, their reasoning goes, they are Home and dry and can then travel with a greater degree of ease.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the Dark Council of the Guild of Assassins of Ankh Morpork (relevant extracts from a Briefing to two operatives in the Rimwards part of the Klatchian continent, delivered via the good offices of the Pegasus Service)._

We can confirm that while the Guild would in theory accept inhumation contracts on members of any sentient race around the Disc, it is the considered opinion of the Dark Council that as of this present moment in time, we should very carefully consider and evaluate the risks involved in fulfilling such a contract on the race known as the NacMacFeegle. Any person or persons proposing such a contract will be advised that while we are not necessarily declining, there must necessarily be a prolonged period of planning, intelligence-gathering and necessary evaluation of the hazards involved, and that this will be of unavoidably indeterminate duration.

We can also confirm that whilst having some access to magics – witness the ability commonly known as "craw-stepping" – the NacMacFeegle are not considered to be a creation of magic, an intrinsically magic folk, or protected by magic. They remain, in the main and according to what is known about them, quite resolutely un-magical. Therefore they are outside the remit of the Teatime Award.

We would not be in opposition to receiving _**strictly theoretical**_ proposals for their inhumation, in the spirit of inquiry fostered by the Teatime Award. Such proposals _**must**_ be kept confidential and discreet and must be clearly labelled **"theoretical proposal** **only** **",** to avert any misunderstandings or adverse publicity should they leak into wider circulation, say to our valued friends in the Witch community. Any strategies for the inhumation of Witches must also be very clearly labelled **"theoretical proposal, for information and discussion** **only** **".** This prevents incidents such as the abortive Weatherwax Contract of several centuries ago, which the Guild looks back on as perhaps not one of our finest moments.

It is also confirmed that on any current or future contact with the student Horst Caspar de Vries Lensen (Viper House), on his Extended Final Run in Howondaland, the two Named Operatives continue to have the status of Final Examiners, with all the privileges and obligations this status confers. Please read the attached _**Handbook For Final Examiners**_ and assimilate its contents thoroughly. This is a Restricted Document, is not for the eyes of students, and is an accountable numbered copy to be surrendered and signed for at the Guild Bureau in Pratoria when you no longer have need for it. Store it carefully. Acknowledge its safe receipt in your next communication. The requisite Official Form 443(h) is attached for your signatures.

Do not be concerned about the Examination Condition stipulating that Mr Lensen must complete his assignment within a year and a day of the night of the Final Run. For your information only: the Year and a Day is formally accepted to have commenced from the moment he made landfall in Ymitury from the ship conveying him. As this was a slow coastal barge of the sort informally known as a "pig-boat" which made necessary stops in many ports along the Klatchian coast, with the captain having strict instructions not to disembark this passenger before Re'Durat, this effectively delayed the start of his clock by seven weeks. You may hint to Mr Lensen that he still has adequate time to make it to his rendezvous date in Pratoria.

Even though his detention in Klatch was due to his own negligience and incompetence, we are also prepared to make the unprecedented gesture of allowing time spent as a prisoner (during which we are prepared to accept that he was biding his time and seeking to plan his escape) to be added to his Extra Year. Do not tell him this. A purpose of the Extra Year is to test the candidate's resolution, drive and determination. Let him carry on believing he is under pressure of time.

At all points, keep the Guild informed as to his progress as you ascertain details.

Your work has been noted and we follow your adventures with close interest.

On a personal level – well done. Splendid work! I look forward to seeing you both again. You both have Daggers of Honour to be conferred. The Dark Council is, from this year onwards, endowing a Golden Dagger to the first-placed student, and Silver and Bronze to the second and third place in their year. With so many outstanding candidates, this seemed only fair.

Downey.

* * *

 _From a personal letter to Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes, from His Excellency Pieter van der Graaf, Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland. Conveyed by Pegasus._

My dearest niece.

Everybody here is following your adventures with great interest and fervent wishes for your health and welfare. Your Aunt Friejda is most concerned for you both and considers what you are doing to be a positively madcap adventure. While she considers your family to be congenitally incapable of staying out of trouble and indeed of positively going out of their way to actively invite it, I believe she is secretly proud of you.

As indeed am I.

Informal and official conversations with Lord Vetinari indicate he is also very pleased with your activities in Cenotia and Klatch. It is possible that on your return to Ankh-Morpork, he may hint at the possibility of one or both of you going into Palace service, most probably as a "subcontractor" working alongside the Dark Clerks, who is retained to perform certain delicate tasks calling for a shrewd operative. Being fully accepted into official Palace service would require you to take up Ankh-Morporkian citizenship, which his lordship assures me might well be conferred on the grounds you have both been resident here for seven years. I counsel caution, as citizens with such dual nationality automatically become of interest to our colleagues of the Bureau Of State Security.

Incidentally, His Lordship made a puzzling remark to me, as he is so wont to. Out of nowhere he genially remarked that he has been called many things in his time and many adjectives have been used to describe him. Sometimes in the context of "famous last words." But being described as "avuncular" is certainly a novel experience, concerning that the accepted meaning of the word is "one who expresses the kindness and good humour expected of an uncle to, perhaps, a favoured niece." I'm sure this is wholly coincidental and he does not have other people read your letters and then give him a precis. I believe he was amused.

Ambassador de Jeslein in Ymitury passed on his recollections of a conversation with you concerning the wretched Lensen boy.

I am relieved, as this meant that my note to the Klatchian ambassador could take the form of a polite request for information concerning the fate of a citizen in his country and thus convey no hint of rebuke or protest. Just normal diplomacy. It still embarrasses them, though.

Lord Downey also took my observations on board concerning the Lensen situation and is relieved I am not (yet) making the situation into cause for an official protest, and that I have refrained from discussing it with my eldest daughter. As I remarked to Donald, it's exactly the sort of thing Suki is adept at getting onto newspaper front pages at Home: _Boy From Bitterfontein Abducted And Sold As A Slave By Klatchians, Is The Assassins' Guild School Guilty Of Culpable Negligience?_

Donald accepted the point. The Dark Council is, apparently, bending over backwards under the threat of adverse publicity to permit young Lensen to graduate as a licenced Assassin, although to be honest I consider it's more than the idiot youth deserves. And will only cheapen and devalue your own exceptional achievement, which I feel I must sincerely apologise to you for.

At least he will be listed as being at the very other end of the scale upon which you and the redoubtable Rivka are at the top: possibly a hundredth or a hundred-and-first in his year, while you are first and second respectively. And Donald was also musing that he will need to be deterred from seeking active contracts, mindful of a duty of care to borderline and maginal candidates.

Horst Lensen is therefore to be reminded that the vast majority of those who graduate from your School do not go on to accept a Guild contract even _once_ , have passed purely for the adventure and the social status of the thing, and then go on to forge worthwhile and productive careers in other areas.

I consider this is for the best.

But do understand that Horst Lensen, for political and diplomatic reasons, will be passed out as an accredited and licenced Assassin regardless of what you both say. It's out of your hands now. There is still the possibility that it may be awarded posthumously, of course. Given the boy's talent for messing things up, I would not be surprised.

Keep me informed directly or via Johanna, and when you meet Charles Smith-Rhodes, remind him he owes Friejda and myself a few weeks hospitality at Jacarinthia House, when I finally retire from this blessed job and hand over to a younger man. As always, the penalty for doing your work well is that you get more of it: BUFA still won't let me go, as there's nobody of the appropriate level of skill and experience to replace me with in a "key diplomatic position."

Your loving and somewhat admiring uncle

Pieter.

* * *

Hi, Johanna!

Well, we said farewells to our friends in the Ogglala Sioux Nation, not without regret, and with Chief Two-Horses speculatively saying to Rivka (via interpreters) that there's a vacancy for a third wife, and after she led the counter-raid on the Arapaho and regained a lot of horses and stolen squaws plus a few more on top, thus making a profit on the deal, would she consider,,, err…

She declined with thanks, but we graciously accepted the new headdresses with warrior feathers (part of the rather large bundles sent back to you for safekeeping, with Olga. I hope you don't mind, but we had to strip our packs down to what we can carry on our backs, as horses can't go into the jungle. We traded the horses and mules for useful things.)

No Indian chiefs asked me to marry them, I notice. I try not to get annoyed about these things and frankly I don't need the bother, but we make it, now, that Rivka has had a hundred and five offers of marriage or nearest situation to. We agreed that David the shepherd boy didn't count, as he's only twelve and while he was sweet, he's still only twelve and in any case, he wanted me to convert to Cenotianism first. Rivka says I am at a disadvantage with a religion that prohibits bacon sandwiches or _braii_ -cooked pork _boerwois_. I agree with her.

Several days later, we were in the nearest thing to a capital city, Sprained Ankle. Apparently named after a very minor battle, more of a skirmish, in the war with our people a century ago **.1 (1)**

Sprained Ankle is a strange meeting of the settled and the nomadic, and a point where Indians of all cultures have semi-permanent camps alongside log and peat cabins built by the white and coloured population – the only non-Indians allowed to reside here permanently.

The Klatchian Embassy, for instance, boasts one of the strangest minarets ever to be built on the Disc, made as it is of cut stripped logs crossed left-over-right atop each other, rising in a sort of tower and topped with cut peat. It looks like a corrugated cardboard box.

The Agateans were trying for a log pagoda, but this appears, alas, to have come out as appearing to be less than harmonious with the guiding principles of the Universe. As for the Djelibeybians, who boast a log pyramid; well, I doubt this will sharpen all that many razor blades, somehow.

The streets are unpaved and I guess in winter will be awash with mud. It is telling that every house has an elevated boardwalk in front, topped with a flimsy guardrail. Many of the smarter buildings have ornate false fronts suggesting far larger buildings – but when you look behind, the actual building proper is far smaller, as if the flat false front has been erected in anticipation of extension work, like that which you had done on top of your mews roof, (or rather which Mother and Aunt Friejda decided should be done for you. **(2))**

The Main Street boasts a bank, an undertakers' parlour advertising in many languages that all faiths and funerary customs are catered for, and several saloons that I suspect are not just bars, but also local outlets for Seamstressing. Even as we watched, a fight was in progress in a saloon called The Newly Mended Drum, and a losing fighter came rolling out through the strange half-doors which appear to serve no useful purpose, ending up in the dust and the horseapples. Several scantily dressed women lolling out of upstairs windows applauded at something that broke the tedium of the day.

We sighed, and rode on.

Did I mention that all the Indian tribes and cultures have small camps here? Each Nation keeps itself to itself and is scrupulous about not antagonizing its neighbours, who can often be their bitter enemies. It is accepted that everyone has a place here, if only to represent their peoples to the world and agree on common foreign policy at the Grand Pow-Wow with diplomats from all over. In short, every Indian tribe sends an Ambassador and a retinue to deal with the wider Disc here at Sprained Ankle.

We have seen not only the almost-familiar teepees of the Plains Indians (Sioux, Kiowa, Comanche, Arapaho). Not far away are fine examples of the adobe mud-brick homes of the Navaho and Yaqui, from the Turnwise deserts. There is even a small step pyramid – composed of the inevitable interlocking log construction ubiquitous locally – belonging to the faraway Tezuman, possibly the most remote of the Indian peoples represented here. In the nearby woods are the longhuts of the resident Iroquis and Huron representatives of their Nations.

Further away from most and strictly downwind is the squalid settlement of the inevitable Scalbie Indians. So very reminiscent in purpose and intention of the native Township outside Piemburg, I note.

And furthest away from all are the hogans and wikiups, oddly reminiscent of the cart-drawn yurts we saw in the sub-Nef, but not built to be easily transferable between carts and ground. Apparently, this distant small settlement, standing aloof from the rest, is the abode of the retiring and elusive (but most definitely not shy!) Apaches, who represent their Nation here. These are treated with caution, and wary respect, by other Indians. Rivka is seeing this as an opportunity to directly find out more about them, as so much is conjecture and rumour based on travellers' tales (or at least, tales brought back by the ones who survived), augmented by tales which may have grown a lot longer in the telling.

All we know for certain is that they occupy a debateable desert region due Rimwards and Turnwise of the Great Nef, and are sandwiched between an aggressive Klatchian Empire to the Hubwards and an equally aggressive Zulu Empire to the Rimwards. Their desert occupies the furthest reach of both hegemonies where both powers find it difficult to sustain armies, but feel they have to try and maintain garrisons there, just to make the point. The Apaches resist the sovereignty of both Empires, and consequently tie down many times their own number of conventional soldiers.

Ruth N'Kweze remarks that the desert frontier is a punishment assignment for commanders, and indeed whole impis, who displease her father. Miriam bint-Alhazred said that Klatchians who annoy Prince Khufurah, or who he wants out of the way for one reason or another, are despatched to either Klatchistan or the Apache frontier.

Miriam also remarked that a suspiciously high number of crossbows and other weapons retrieved from the few Apaches they manage to kill bear makers' marks suggesting manufacture in Rimwards Howondaland. Or Ankh-Morpork.

It is true that our foreign policy would be served by ensuring the Klatchians find it difficult, or near-impossible, to establish contact with the Zulus over what would otherwise be a mutual border. Any cross-desert convoy from Klatch to the Empire has to be escorted by a massive and disproportionate Army, and vice-versa, to ensure it arrives in one piece! Ensuring a significant portion of the Zulu Empire's military strength is absorbed in policing the border furthest away from Rimwards Howondaland does no harm too.

And Uncle Charles deals in weapons, as I recall. He has many "business associates" in Ankh-Morpork. And why should the Apaches have broken with their long-standing aloof isolation all of a sudden, to send representatives to the _{{Great Standing Pow-Wow}},_ in a place which both Ankh-Morpork and Rimwards Howondaland choose to grace with Embassies. Hmmm.

Oh, there is a Zulu Embassy here too.

I discovered this when we near-encountered an armed patrol of Zulu soldiers, escorting an obvious diplomat or noble in the town. I am dressed in a way that clearly marks me as being a Vondalaander. They were carrying the flat hide shields and assegais, as well as wearing the headdresses and bodily adornments announcing their warrior status. The shields the wore were brown tan oxhide base, bearing clouds and stripes in deep chocolate brown which occupied some two-thirds of the shield area. They were adorned with binding stitches in white and ornamental ties to the shield staves in black and red cord. Their ostrich feathers were pale yellow and white, and the decorative adornment to wristbands, anklets and behind the assegai heads were in the same colours. (Is this enough for the Military Attaché to identify their impi?)

There was a brief tense stand-off as we identified each other, then the noble flicked his fly-switch and bade them march on. He looked at me in a manner that implied recognition. I breathed out and took my hand from my machete hilt. Of course, any actual fighting would be a diplomatic breach. And these were not people like Ruth N'Kweze or Sissi N'Kima, with whom we have a good Agreement. These were the enemy. Who I realized I have never actually fought. Yet.

We found rooms above a quiet-ish saloon that doubled as a hotel, and hopefully where any Seamstressing would be minimal and discreet. Sleeping in a real bed and having a long-anticipated civilized bath after so long will be like heaven. (Although with armed Zulus in town, I will take care to have weapons to hand!)

Later in the day we found the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy, where I was warmly received and my request for information concerning the deeper jungle was treated as a priority.

More later. Having been recognized by hostile people, I am keen to leave this place. By the way, I have passed those copies of _**Modern Young Woman**_ and _**Bu-Bubble**_ on to one of the local Seamstresses, who became friendly when she realised we weren't new competition in town. I understand the "working girls" here are starved for diversion when off-duty, and such magazines are avidly seized. It seems like a courteous thing to do. Perhaps Mrs Palm might be advised of this? I know she cares for the welfare and well-being of her people. It is an admirable thing about her. She might be prevailed upon to take an interest in events here and send welfare items, like a regular supply of City magazines detailing the latest fashions. It's good for business, after all!

Thank you for the despatches from the Guild and the copy of the _**Examiner's Handbook**_. Something to read and think about while I wait for Rivka to return from a "reconnaissance trip". Are we then to pass the fool Lensen? The Guild is asking a lot there!

With love

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. August._

Hi Johanna!

A few random notes on Sprained Ankle.

It is a pit.

Think of the Mended Drum but on a town-sized scale. Without a Sam Vimes to enforce some sort of law. Local lawmen exist in theory, but in practice the Sheriff and Deputy Sheriff are current job vacancies nobody is in a hurry to fill. A sort of general consensus to keep some sort of peace exists, as everyone realises the alternative is far worse. Diplomatic staff tend to go with armed escorts, as with the Zulu Embassy delegation we passed in the street. There is an informal agreement among Ambassadors that their armed guards are seen and visible around the place to act as an informal deterrent to the worst sorts of criminality. As often happens, the various Embassies, Consulates and Legations operate as a band of brothers united by shared adversity, and even nations normally bitter enemies do informal favours for each other. Co-operation happens among the most unlikely people.

We are obviously armed, and are therefore spared too much interference. Weapons are respected. Also the Sioux Nation has put the word out, no doubt over an informal peace-pipe of the smoking herb, that we are warriors who distinguished ourselves in battle. This helps too.

I have met Apaches, by the way.

They are interesting people.

This was done through the good offices of a Guild graduate who is informally based here, as a guide and interpreter for the standing Apache Nation delegation to the _{{Great Standing Pow-Wow}}._

We Guild graduates do get into some interesting and useful places full of potential for activity, don't we? I'm sure the Dark Council is aware of a Presence here, but for your information, your former student Starhawk wishes you _yaa'ta'sai_ and _ash'a'go'tai_ for your training and education. She hopes your daughters grow into warriors who will take no _kemosabie_ from anyone, and take after their warrior mother in every way.

Starhawk, who graduated in the same year as Miriam bint-Alhazred, was keen to hear our story and was much amused. An older Apache, who she introduced as Uncle Cock-Eyes, was also approving and thumped his fist on the table in appreciation of our doings. (He was at pains to point out the spelling of his name is in fact C-O-C-H-I-S-E. Same pronunciation).

They remind me of the D'Regs of Klatch and have much the same outlook on life. Although I suspect if I had encountered them in their own land without Starhawk to vouch for me, it might not end well.

Interestingly, when I dropped into a tavern for a quiet drink and to seek information, I was at first aware of a person in a long coat and a broad-brimmed hat sitting quietly by themselves. When the sort of individual who goes into a tavern, called here a saloon, to seek trouble, accused this stranger of spilling his drink – so like the Mended Drum at home – the accused party stood up and unhurriedly removed their coat and hat. Revealing a braided headband and buckskins decorated in a certain unmistakeable way that made even the hardened drinkers at the bar step back.

"Should you still wish for a fight." Starhawk said, placing a hand on her dagger hilt, "then indicate assent and we can go outside. I choose knives, by the way."

Apaches are skilled knife fighters. I recall Starhawk as having been good at Bladed Weapons and Stabbing. Extremely good. Other similarly dressed people, broad men, very broad about the chest and not running to great height, dressed similarly, appeared form the shadows. They are good at concealment. I had not noticed them. Their faces were oddly wide and flat, almost "not quite human". I wonder if this is part of the mystique of the Apache Indian.

There was no other trouble. The aggressor backed down and retreated.

I introduced myself to her and she said "Of course I remember. Little girl, big trouble. You have a reputation. Get the drinks in!"

My report on the Apache Indians is appended for Guild attention. Apparently Uncle Cock-Eyes considers I would make a fine fighting wife for a warrior. (Apaches expect their women to be every bit as good at fighting as the men. No chauvinism there!)

My Apache title is apparently _{{Little Girl, Big Trouble}}._ I like that.

We parted on good terms. I am wondering if I could get away with visiting the Apache lands and coming out with my life intact. Something to consider.

The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy could not have been more helpful.

News of our possible arrival had been communicated via the diplomatic messaging service, and they were expecting us anyway. Hands were shaken and fine wine from the Widdershins Caarp was broached in recognition of our doings in Cenotia and Klatch, which made all the papers. The ambassador warned us that the Zulus get the papers too and it was almost certain they were also looking out for us – and that Mariella had been recognised. So they knew a Smith-Rhodes was in the area and that this would be sent on to the Homeland as a priority.

We seriously thought about being careful and taking the commercial carpet over the jungle – the commercial carpet service calls here – but we reflected the carpet port is at the Klatchian Embassy. Where we are wanted people on Klatchian soil. Besides, the ambassador told us Horst Lensen had been here, about a week ago. He had also sold his horse and also had good reason to avoid Klatchian attention – well, he's an escaped slave, notionally so. We could see he would want to avoid recapture.

He has gone into the forest and jungle seeking a small trading settlement on the Urabewian side, from where river transport can be obtained that will see him over Lake Karibou (which the natives call Lake M'Boili) and into Smith-Rhodesia.

So at this point we were only a week behind Lensen and could catch him up.

We decided to take the risk and the jungle road.

A Pegasus is to call and take these despatches, plus our surplus gear, back to Ankh-Morpork. We are to sell our horses and travel on foot to this place called _Smithville_ , in Urabewe.

I asked Mariella if this is another of your family's trail markers.

Not guilty, she said. Really. This time it's some other Smith without the Rhodes. Lots of people are called Smith.

We set out tomorrow. Do Pegasii go as far as Smithville or is it off the trail even for them?

Mariella read me the letters from Downey and your esteemed uncle. So we are to ensure Lensen does not get himself killed and are to kick his arse all the way to Pratoria, where after due reflection and consideration he is to be made an Assassin.

Standard bodyguarding contract, then. Does it attract a decent fee? Nuisance and danger money? Offended feelings money?

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** There were few casualties. The Rimwards Howondalandians (a straggling and separated command cut off from the main body of the Army which was retreating to the coast for evacuation by sea) simply wanted to fight back through the forests and jungles to safety in Smith-Rhodesia; the Indians were content by then to let them, their point having been conclusively made; and a prominent chief tripped in an inconvenient gopher hole, twisting his foot badly. The settlement here perpetuates the name in his honour. As the girls will soon find out, it's just about accessible by river and jungle trail from Smith-Rhodesia and is tolerated as a trading and diplomatic settlement where most of the major states keep Embassies and Consulates. It even gets a regular carpet flight.

 **(2)** See my tale **Hyperemesis Gravidarum.**

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Interesting idea related by Michael Palin in his Diaries. He reflects that Noel Coward wrote one of his most famous songs when hopelessly delayed in a traffic jam in London on his way to an important meeting. Where most of us might have fumed and fretted, Coward turned a half-hour delay into an opportunity to write a song. Which shows that genius lies in grasping your chances – and recognising when a setback can be turned into an opportunity.**


	23. The Heart of Insufficent Light

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-three: The Heart of Insufficient Light**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **Poised to arrive in the hegemony of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland, that federation of semi-autonomous provinces and States, or Staadts, governed at the highest level from the city of Pratoria (for political purposes), Bloemfontein (the centre of legal jurisdiction) and Caarp Town. (nominally the legislative capital, but a city in a very all-year-clement area and Home to some very influential people and their Families).**_

 _ **Just realised a cure for writer's block is to get in there and write something, anything. Force something out. It doesn't need to be in the final version. Then the block clears and little glimmers of ideas and reminders concerning things previously jotted down emerge.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

Johanna!

After a fairly arduous trek on foot, we arrived in Smithville on the banks of the river B'Ware. Well, what can I say except that – this is the true Howondaland of story and legend. Klatch and the Central Plains are now well and truly behind us and truly, we have arrived in the Heart of Insufficient Light, the Centre of the Dark Incontinent, the place of which many stories, legends and travellers' tales are made.

And our opinion to be added to the corpus of those tales is that it's squalid and it stinks.

Thank you for the practical advice that arrived via Pegasus on the last day before we departed from Sprained Ankle to head into the forest.

It was reading that we assimilated intently. I do note your advice that "Like swimming in a deep pool, there can be no preparation for the jungle. People can tell you the water is deep, that you have to take a deep breath before leaping in, that there will be a big change in temperature and atmosphere, that you must move with care and deliberation, and that other things may be swimming in that water, and what sort of shapes and attitudes you can expect them to have. But you do not truly know if you can swim until you have leapt in."

In other words – you're in at the deep end, girl.

The recollections and advice from people such as you, Miss Alice Band, the Compte de Yoyo, and others who have explored the jungle, were of great interest. We especially appreciated Madame Emmanuelle's heartfelt account of her one and only trip into a jungle environment. **(1)** Wildernesses (of any kind!) do not appear to be a core strength for her. And Lucinda Rust's somewhat self-justifying account of her own jungle trek, together with all the accumulated footnotes and marginal comments, was most amusing! How the Hell did she escape informal inhumation on the part of the Zulus? I note that they were only too keen to dump her on the Apache border where somehow she got across to Klatch intact. It is possible the Apaches recognized a kindred spirit and it amused them to assist her? Still, as with Horst Lensen (more later) perhaps there is a God, or a powerful demon, who protects unpleasant fools.

I appreciate that so far you have not been able to (officially) deliver any sort of formal and practical training course in Jungle Survival Skills and many things have mitigated against this. Such training as you have been able to deliver has been ad-hoc and on the fly, such as when you needed to administer the team deployed to the Tobacco Farm business. (And now I know **exactly** why the Matabels would automatically kill any Smith-Rhodes family members they catch in their country! You and Cousin Julian both, it seems. We make friends easily as a family, don't we?)

The projected syllabus for Jungle Survival that you and other Guild teachers devised as a hypothetical training course was also of interest. **(2)** Perhaps now we have accumulated a little practical experience of our own, we can add to that in due course. And after we have completed the next stage of our journey and arrived Home, we will probably have more knowledge to offer.

And above all, we thank Matron Igorina that she made time to fly out with Olga Romanoff, to give us a medical examination and provide inoculations against some of the possible jungle diseases that can be expected as theoretical possibilities. Those and the medical kit she provided have proven invaluable, although we were both a little light-headed during the first day or two until the effects wore off. Fortunately this was during the initial stages of the forest trek, which were relatively easy compared to what came next. As Igorina said, you can never be too prepared.

Well, having stripped down our kit to the absolute essentials that could be carried on our backs and persons, and having checked off all the items on your personal checklist (a product of long experience and survival in hard places, and we thank you!) we set off on what was at first an easy and clearly marked trail. On the fringes of the forest, trees are fairly widely spaced and there are huge gaps where logging for human use has taken place. These clearings are marked by the growth of saplings and other vegetation, although the people here really need to learn the principles of coppicing and forestry management.

For the first two or three days progress was easy, and there was no need to employ machetes to clear a way. But inexorably, the tree growth became taller, closer and thicker, and we could only intermittently see the sky above us through the trees. The effect of sunlight filtering down through green growth above is never unpleasant, by the way.

Three days in, with the effects of the inoculations fading away and having covered around sixty miles (as the forest thickened we necessarily had to move more slowly), we realized we were on the fringes of the true tropical forest, the jungle. The plant and tree growth was changing too, from trees of the temperate zone to the darker, lusher, growth of the tropics. Things, in short, were getting darker and greener. And there was more of it.

On several occasions, we stood to one side to allow columns of native bearers carrying goods to pass. These were, we understood, employees and not slaves and seemed cheerful enough. Allowing up to fifty heavily burdened largely black people to pass through before us also served to widen the trail and make the path clearer, with their trampling down the new growth as they passed. Nothing grows as quickly as jungle. We discovered these were trade convoys passing between Sprained Ankle and Smithville, delivering furs and goods from the Plains and trading them for goods coming into Smithvillle, via trail and river, out of Smith-Rhodesia and Rimwards Howondaland. (Oh, and from the Zulu Empire. Smithville is, we discovered, a cosmopolitan town).

And that's the other thing. Red Indians fade out very quickly as you travel Rimwards. Apparently there are forest tribes nearer the coast, but here, in the interior, the dominant ethnicity very soon becomes Black Howondalandian. We were now, pretty much, in Urabewe. The town of Smithville is the nearest thing it has to a capital, it seems.

We had been very carefully establishing hammocks and nets at night to sleep above ground level. Given the amount of wildlife rustling in the undergrowth, this seemed prudent. Hammocks and nets roll up light and compact, and there was scant need for blankets. There had been no trouble so far and perhaps we relaxed a little too much.

One thing we did experiment with, when we established camp for the night. You sent the clown-slap in various interesting colours – white, black, brown, and various greens – and the illustrated booklet explaining its use. I notice you and Miss Lansbury collaborated on this. Her line drawings were most explanatory as to how to use clown-slap in these colours to break up the shape and un-natural colour of a human face, for camouflage in the jungle. We made up each other's faces according to the manual, and experimented with concealment when we could. It really works! It helped.

Six days into the jungle, interesting things started to happen. We had covered just over a hundred miles, but with the trail diminishing by the day and the ground becoming progressively more overgrown with trail and growth and creeper, our daily rate was diminishing perceptibly. It was also getting hotter, damper and more humid. And only very rarely now could we see the sky above our heads. Smaller creatures were sometimes visible, but most of the time we only heard a fantastic amount of animal noise. Once or twice, larger creatures (judging by the sound) seemed to approach our camps, but did not show themselves. I remembered you talking about leopards and black panthers. Whatever larger beast this was, it seemed to awe smaller creatures into either panicked flight or silence. Fortunately, it may have thought better about approaching us, or it had enough experience to know what loaded crossbows mean.

We grew sweat-soaked, damper and dirtier by the day and were counting down the days until a civilized bath, or even a safe river or pool, could be found. And we needed to get to Smithville, if only to find a reliable source of water. Thank you for the tuition on which jungle plants, when opened, contain drinkable liquid. And how night dews can be condensed onto a groundsheet and collected. This helped.

But things got interesting on the afternoon of the sixth day. We were following the trail as it ran downwards. It began to widen and there were many animal tracks. We reasoned that this may lead downhill to a water source where creatures drank. We could fill our water skins – called "chaggles" here, by the way – then find a safe place to seek to purify the water by boiling. As we were both sweating copiously (and neither of us, frankly, smelt nice), replenishing water was increasingly becoming a problem. But water had to come from somewhere in a place where there was so much life. Your notes were again most informative, by the way. Following the water meant we became inattentive to the world around us. This was an error.

I sensed something moving in the air near me and paid no attention, thinking it to be a winged insect. Then I saw Rivka had gone into cover in the undergrowth. I was slow. Looking down, I then registered the long feathered dart sticking into the webbing of my pack's strap. Then I realized. There were people out there with blowpipes.

A second or two later I was in cover and had plucked the dart out. Fortunately it had not penetrated to my skin. I tried to see where Rivka had concealed herself. Then I heard the sound of her crossbow, being fired upwards. There was a distant grunt and the sound of a body falling through foliage. Then a recognizable human body thudded into the ground about twenty yards away. I began, with extreme care, scanning the tree-line and searching for human movement in the foliage. Glimpsing another human body moving in the green, I aimed and fired. A second human body jerked to a halt and fell through the branches, dislodging leaves, branches and a startled monkey. (I am sure it wasn't an ape!) This one too fell to earth and did not move.

I have inhumed for the first time.

I can say it was legitimate self-defence against people who for whatever reason were trying to kill me. I am sure that blowpipe dart would have been tipped with something not nice for my health. I have thought about this since and while I would prefer not to have to kill anyone, there is no need for self-reproach. They were intent on killing us, after all.

What has been described as a Klatchian Stand-Off followed. We were sure others were out there but they had also had the sense to go to ground and not move. I wondered if others were circling round to our rear to take us from behind. It was not a pleasant thought. I sensed movement to my left and turned to cover this direction.

"Mariella?" I heard the whisper above the background noise of insects and animals.

"Here." I said.

Rivka had shed her pack and was moving unencumbered, crawling with care in the dense undergrowth.

"Two more. In the trees. I think that's all of them."

We watched for a while, trying to become as one with the jungle. Trying to identify where the other natives were. There were no more blowpipe darts: I suspect they were just as intent on finding out where we were. And were also conserving their shots.

And then the really strange thing happened.

The woman came walking unconcernedly down the trail. She was tanned, yes. But white-skinned, aged possibly fifty, with brown hair touched with grey. She wore native sandals and a sarong in leopard-skin, with a minimal top in the same material. Her hair was retained in an animal-skin headband. She was unarmed.

She looked down at one of the bodies and shook her head.

"Silly little bugger." she remarked, in an upper-class Ankh-Morporkian accent. "Just couldn't resist it, could you?"

Then she glanced over in our direction, and unconcernedly looked away.

"You two girls stay where you are for the moment." she said, in the sort of brisk voice Sybil Ramkin uses to tell people exactly what she'd like them to do. You are moved to obey a voice like that. "I'd be obliged if you held your fire, though. No sense in any more of these silly little sods getting killed. Or perhaps, _inhumed_."

She looked up into the treetops and aid something in a native patois, clapping her hands. Then she folded her arms and waited. Tapping of the foot happened.

After a while, no less than four remarkable little natives came out of cover, looking sheepish and crestfallen. Our unlikely savior berated them for a while, and their heads hung in shame. Let me describe them, Johanna. Too short to be human, but too tall to be dwarves. Between four feet three and four feet eight in height. Tiny men. Black skins. Dressed in the most minimal loincloths and holding blowpipes, with a pouch of darts at the belt. And being rebuked as if they were schoolchildren. And meekly taking it.

"I think you young ladies are safe to come out now." she said, without looking at us. "No shooting, though."

Rivka and I emerged cautiously, looked at each other, and went, cautiously, to the trail. Rivka went to recover her pack.

One of the little men moved towards us and lowered his head. He spoke in the native tongue.

"He says he's very sorry and he won't do it again." the woman said. "He concedes you are mighty hunters and knows not to try and attack you now, not after you slew Ding'we and N'Dnif. He'll put the word out."

I collected the blowpipe and darts from one of the dead pygmies. Steeling myself, I retrieved the crossbow bolt that had killed him. Rivka did the same with the other man. The others accepted this, and were allowed to take the bodies of the fallen and troop off.

The darts are in a VERY sealed package and may interest Mr Mericet. Please advise him he is to open the package with the most extreme caution. It is labelled for his attention. The blowpipes might go onto the weapons walls somewhere?

The woman looked at us with tolerant amusement.

"Our place is just down the trail." She said. "you're welcome to freshen up and eat with us. Goodness knows where the Lord of the Jungle is. Probably out hunting with the chimpanzees or something. Or else having an afternoon nap with the local gorillas."

She sighed.

"He's a bugger for that. But no changing him after twenty-five years, I suppose. Coming?"

"Who are you?" I asked.

"It might be more polite if you two introduced yourselves first? Although I've got an idea. News travels faster than feet."

We introduced ourselves.

"Thought so." our hostess said. "Got wind you were coming. And a request to look out for you both. I reckoned you might have made it this far after nearly a week, and came out to meet you."

She smiled.

"Lady Jane Greystruck, by the way. You can call me Jane, let's be informal."

Home was a treehouse accessible by rope ladders and tied ropes of vine. Incredibly, a brass plaque, a little pitted by corrosion but kept polished, was screwed into the bole of the tree. It read CONSULATE OF THE CITY STATE OF ANKH-MORPORK IN SMITHVILLE, URABEWE.

"Havelock suggested it might be useful." she said. "Something useful to do for the old city. And Havelock seemed a bit amused at the thought of His Nibs being the consul here. In practice, I do the thinking and the talking. Needs it."

Lady Jane and I went up first. Well, life is full of surprises. The treehouse was large and well-appointed, and furnished like a comfortable parlour in Ankh. It even had separate bedrooms and kitchen.

I was encouraged to let down a rope so Rivka could tie our packs to it. Then Lady Jane and I hauled them up.

Rivka followed, and soon we were having some really nice tea. From Agatean cups.

"Got to keep up the standards." Lady Jane said.

Her nose wrinkled slightly.

"Better show you where you can freshen up. It'll be safe, you won't be bothered again. Got clean clothes? Or clean-ish, anyway. When you go down to the town later, you can get a native woman to do laundry. Your _bodies_ , on the other hand. Need some TLC, if you don't mind me saying so. When we finish the tea I'll take you to the pool. Bathe there myself. Clean running water, twenty minutes away!"

She studied us again, and said

"And you can get all that multicoloured muck off your faces. I've got to admit, though, jolly effective for hiding you in the greenery. I could barely tell where you both were!"

And it was heaven. A plunge-pool under a small waterfall feeding a stream that drained lower down into the B'Ware. And we'd have missed it, if we hadn't been shown.

Later on, His Nibs arrived. Later fifties. Long unkempt grey hair. Well-kept body for a man of his age, wearing only a matching his-and-hers leopardskin loincloth. He looked at us both. And a man of very few words. Some trolls are more eloquent.

"Me, Tarquin!" he said, indicating himself. "You Jane?" he asked, indicating us.

"No, me, Rivka." she said, indicating herself.

"And me, Mariella." I said.

Tarquin of the Apes looked confused.

"Sorry. He thinks _all_ women are called Jane. Long story." Lady Jane apologized. She turned to her presumed husband. " **I'm** Jane, you ha'porth!"

And thus we met Lord Tarquin Greystruck, a minor scion of Ankh-Morporkian nobility. A sad story, Johanna. Both his parents were keen members of the Guild of Trespassers and took their heir, unwisely as it turned out, on a jungle trek. Both fell foul of poisoned darts. The native bearers fled, and the infant son was brought up by wild animals who adopted him as one of their own. Hence his not being a scintillating conversationalist.

"Came out here twenty-eight years ago." said Lady Jane. "A few years after Havelock first became Patrician. I'd just graduated from the QAYL, I needed an adventure, and the Guild of trespassers had vacancies on an expedition to Howondaland. Specifically, they were recruiting for the expedition posts of _Haughty Aristocratic Young Woman Who Looks Good In A Solar Topee With A White Scarf Attached, Who Can Cow The Natives Into Submission Out Of Every Expectation That She Will Be Obeyed._ The other vacancy was for _Beautiful But Ineffectual Young Woman Wholly Unsuited For The Expedition Who Screams Shrilly And Faints At Every Perceived Danger, Who Needs To Continually Be Rescued From Peril._

"Well, I went to the Guild, expressed an interest, and asked them which of those two roles did they think I was best suited for? Clue: I'd just graduated from the Quirm Academy for Young Ladies where two of my contemporaries were Sybil Ramkin and Serafine von Überwald. _And_ my form-mistress in the last two years had been Joan Sanderson-Reeves. So did they _really_ think I was temperamentally suited to screaming, fainting and continually needing men to rescue me?

"Good point, they said, and I came along. As _Haughty Aristocratic Young Woman In The Solar Topee._ Still got it somewhere."

"Errr." Rivka said. "You said something about Joan Sanderson-Reeves?"

"Yes. Teaches young Assassins now, doesn't she? Well, at the time she was barely out of teachers' college. Her first job in education, so they gave her the dogsbody job of Resident Housemistress. Sort of thing the new girl always gets, like those young women the Assassins' Guild took on as teachers, when they started teaching girls. Joan dodged that one, but the other three all ended up with Houses to manage, I hear. Joan's mellowed out a bit from what she was then, I'm glad to say. Full of sin and experience now! Had a social gin together when I was last in the City."

She smiled, happily.

"Stayed at Sybil's. She always manages to get a Hogswatch card out here, by the way. Never missed a year! Anyway, we got invited to receptions at the Palace, and other places. His Nibs caused a bit of a stir, that one time I brought him with me!"

"I'll bet he did." I agreed, thinking of a man in a leopardskin loincloth swinging off the Patrician's chandeliers. Quite possibly Uncle Havelock's cerebral sense of humour at work. And Tarquin, Lord Greystruck, might well have fitted into Ankh-Morpork's nobility, as just slightly more eccentric than usual… possibly also more intelligent and articulate than some.

"Oh, he only came the once." Jane sighed. "Didn't quite _fit_ and not at home in the city. Lost him for ages one day. Turned out he'd gone up the University and was having quite a long chat with the Librarian and sharing a few bananas. So these days, when I fly back for a break and to keep in touch, he stays here. Best all round, really."

"Where was I? Ah yes. Expedition arrived. Got here. Lost that irritating little girl who screamed a lot and needed to be rescued. I met Tarquin. Liked him. Got married. Had the two kids. Son's now in Ankh-Morpork living quietly and managing the Greystruck properties and monies, such as they are. He went to Hugglestone's, by the way. Good at sports and climbing, you see. Runs our place in the Shires. When the time comes, I might retire back there. Write some memoirs. Got a gel, younger, she's at the QAYL, doing just fine from her school reports. Havelock made Tarquin the consul here. Said he presented an admirable face of Ankh-Morpork to the world, and he couldn't think of a better man. In practice, I tend to do most of the consulling stuff. The stuff that requires a brain. Deal with the natives, look after travellers, _try_ to be diplomatic to any of three foreign armies that occasionally send patrols out here to fly the flag, hint to them that if they want a fight, for goodness sake to _take it downriver_ where they're in nobody's way, that sort of thing. Zulus, Matabeles, and _your_ people. We get all three."

"What we call border clashes, skirmishes and flare-ups?" I asked.

Lady Jane nodded.

"Bloody nuisances when it happens. But you get to know the _indunas_ on the Zulu and Matabel side. And there's a new _kolonel_ commanding the border security force on your side, I hear, haven't met him yet. Hopefully the outgoing chap briefed him. Damn, we're overdue for another border clash. Just to warn you, the Zulu people downriver are getting frisky. Young warriors aching for a fight. Generally against _your_ people. And there's a new commander on your side of the river who doesn't quite know the local ropes yet. I'm just betting that leads to unpleasantness."

"What's the new man's name?" I asked. Best to get intelligence on people you will soon be dealing with.

"Kolonel…" she searched for the name. "Fleming Volteyn van der Bly, I hear."

I tried not to grimace too obviously. But both she and Rivka noticed.

"Oh. Know him, do you?"

I sighed.

"Distant relative." I said. "Very distant. Never met the fellow, but by all accounts he's an overpromoted _bliksem_ with an exaggerated idea of his own ability. He married a relative of Uncle Charles, which makes him a Smith-Rhodes by marriage. Very distantly, but still family. My sister and my cousin think he's playing on the family connection for preference. Cousin Julian thinks he's a _doosis._ Apparently Uncle Charles can't stand him, but feels obliged to do something for the poor cousin of his who he married."

Lady Jane scrutinized me carefully.

"By your reference to "Uncle Charles", am I to take it you are the niece of Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes?" she inquired.

I nodded. The real relationship is more complex than that, but Father calls him "Cousin Charles" and we refer to him as "Uncle Charles". We're all Smith-Rhodeses, anyway. That matters.

And then Lady Jane told us the other thing. Rivka is writing her recollections of this part of the tale for you. We have been able to write by lamplight for some hours now by the good offices of Lady Jane, but it is late and I am getting tired and tomorrow promises to be a busy day. By arrangement, my account will stop here for now. Rivka's will continue from broadly the point where this leaves off.

With love, and seeking sleep on a comfortable bedroll indoors for the first time in a week,

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _At this point in the story, in the Greystruck Treehouse and Ankh-Morporkian Consulate, near Smithville, Urabewe._

 _The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. Later in August._

Hi Johanna!

Have I mentioned we discovered how Smithville got its name? The look on Mariella's face when she realised was to be cherished. I hope it will not appal you too much and I suspect you may already know.

But it is to do with Balgrogs, said to be a fabled beast living in the jungles in these parts. And men who hunt them. Or claim to. **(3)**

Mariella went _very_ quiet when Lady Jane explained it was to do with a chap from round your way who stayed here for a while, claiming to be hunting Balgrogs.

"Bit of a fraud in my opinion, but give him his due, Balthazar was quite an engaging chap. Very funny, and honest as a die with me when he realised I'd seen through him. The natives liked him and wanted to call the town Smith-Rhodesville in his honour, but apparently the family got to hear of this, and vetoed it. Got the message " _ **Just**_ Smithville, if you don't mind." And Balthazar got a reminder that being exiled from the country meant going a _lot_ further away than just the opposite side of the border. The rest of the family thought Ankh-Morpork would be a good start. They even sent people out to escort him to Port Smith-Rhodes and see him on a ship…. Ah. He was _family_ , Mariella?"

Apparently your Uncle Baal is quite a character?

And then she told us _another_ of you people passed through here a week or two ago. Dead on his feet, poor chap, Gods know what was keeping him upright and walking, was in a hell of a state. Got him to the town where there's a mission station and a hospital. The nuns there said they'd take care of him. He's probably still there.

"Jungle fever and exhaustion, I thought. Some nasty wounds on his chest, too."

Lady Jane thought the young lad might be okay after a couple of weeks' rest and medical care, but as he seemed to be another of you Guild if Assassins people judging by the clothes and the backpack, "you might want to pop by and check?"

The next morning we did pop by and check.

It was Horst Lensen, and it was a lot worse than just exhaustion and jungle fever. We are assisting the nuns and the Omnian missionary with basic medical care and using such skills as we learnt, together with the contents of our medical kits. The nuns have practical experience and some skills, and Brother Lay-On-Hands-And-Heal-With-Faith-In-The-Name-Of-Om is typical of his kind in that he can shut up, lay aside the pamphlets and preaching, and do useful things when there's a need.

I believe there is a need for a higher level of medical intervention here than anyone present can give. I understand from the Guild briefings that it would not look good if Lensen were to die. This would cause embarrassment, bad publicity and a possible international diplomatic incident of the sort which would lead Lord Vetinari to be very sarcastic indeed to Lord Downey.

Horst Lensen is fevered, delirious, shows signs of a high fever and blood poisoning, and has suppurating wounds in his upper chest. Possibly from the Sun Dance ordeal imposed on him by the Plains Indians. We are draining and cleaning the wounds – Klatchian orakh is the best thing we have. I suspect no infectious agents can survive being drenched in it. We are also assisting the sisters in providing routine nursing care. I am not temperamentally suited to providing and emptying bedpans, I have decided.

But I suspect it really needs an Igor. Lady Jane has said they are due a routine Pegasus visit. Hopefully it will be soon and we can send back this most urgent request for help.

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

* * *

 _ **Damn, six thousand words. Have to split this.**_

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** Refer to my tale _**Bungle in the Jungle**_. Although Vetinari was true to his word. After several days of sweaty privation, Emmanuelle emerged with the job completed and discovered she was now a Comptesse. The same tale also carries extracts from her Journal describing how Lucinda Rust continually and consistently missed the point about travelling in Howondaland.

 **(2)** classroom-based teaching in jungle survival in the British Army, which for cost and practicality reasons was delivered in barracks in Britain, was affectionately known as "JEWT" – Jungle Education Without Trees. Sometimes all the heating was turned up in a gymnasium and soldiers would perform two hours of intense physical training – in full uniform and weapons load and with minimal water – just to get an approximation of how it would feel.

 **(3)** Howondaland Smith, Balgrog Hunter, a man who I expanded from a one-liner in canon to be the central character in _**The Black Sheep**_ , gets his expanded canonical appearance in _**The Compleat Discworld Atlas**_. And yes, Balgrogs are involved. (And, amusingly, " _Balrog_ " is a suggested correction for " _Balgrog_ ", so the word has made its way into Microsoft Word's inbuilt dictionary… )

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Interesting idea related by Michael Palin in his Diaries. Damn, had a really good note here but it's lost. Placed it now:1984 or 85, on a stopover in South Africa, something to do with one of his travel gigs, Palin got lost in a Johannesburg railway station and not being able to read Afrikaans, went out through the wrong door, the one marked SLEGS VIR SWARTSE MENSE. He ended up in the part of Joburg that the tourist doesn't usually see, the bit that was very carefully hidden, and saw life as black people saw it. He said the most disturbing thing was not so much the petty incivility of apartheid, as the utter indifference of the white overlord to the black, tidying an entire people out of the way where they were out of sight, out of mind. He queried how long a country accepting this as normal could carry on treating a majority of its citizens as invisible non-people. An interesting perspective.**

 **Reading the Wikipedia articles on forests and jungles to get an accurate picture of what the girls might expect to see and problems they'd encounter on passing from a wide grassy plain, into "seasonal forest", then true forest, and past that into "monsoon forest". Wow, intricate. Grasping that it progresses from "passable easily on foot" to "lots more tangled growth underfoot hindering progress" then into "hot, humid and horrible". Given the projected scales of distance to cover between the "Central Plains" and "Smith-Rhodesia", allow ten days to get to Smithville, then a short but meaningful river-to-lake voyage, then a full-blown tropical monsoon and hurricane tides driving them to seek shelter on whatever nearest shore they wash up on – which will be the Zulu Empire. Then a short few hours packed with lots of incident as our travellers make it over the river B'Ware and into sanctuary – they think.**

 **Also – manage the ethnic transition. "Smithville" as a place where the last "Indians" of the Central Plains merge with true Black Howondalandians with a few whites who have gone native – a racial mixing pot that would be abominated by apartheid-true-believers! Plus the inevitable Cenotians and a letter waiting for Rivka from Yenta Goldberg, who has Anticipated. And maybe a Ghatian/Klatchistanian running the trading stores, just for Rule of Funny. (Thinks. Balgrogs as described in CDA?) And Mariella discovers** _ **exactly**_ **who Smithville is named for, and has a face-palm moment.**

 **So; seven to ten days to get from Sprained Ankle to Smithville on the river. Another four or five days at the mission hospital where they re-encounter the hapless Lensen. Then two-three days by water, and possibly a full day of evading unsympathetic Zulus as Mariella and Lensen finally return Home, with a Cenotian visitor in tow. Mariella reflects that now,** _ **all**_ **her parents' children have fought Zulus in combat. Fourteen – seventeen days?**

 **Then their less-than-warm (initially) reception in Smith-Rhodesia.**

 **SAVANNAH (prairie)**

 **Leads to**

subtropical dry broadleaf forest

 _leads to_ :

Tropical dry broadleaf forests

 _Leads to:_

Tropical rainforest

 _Leads to:_

The same progression, only in reverse;

 _or_ To Hubwards Smith-Rhodesia: formerly a progression of jungle types but largely cleared by human intervention for agriculture and settlement: then back to Veldt (prairie or savannah. Or steppe) in Rimwards Smith-Rhodesia. Cf "Northern and Southern Rhodesia" (Zambia and Zimbabwe) on our world.


	24. Messing about on the river

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-four:messing about on the river  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Carrying on the story, more or less, from the Discworld Tarot short "The Princess of Wands". In which two "Princesses" of the correct airy/fiery disposition go travelling. Et c et c.**_

 _ **Poised to arrive in the hegemony of the Union of Rimwards Howondaland, that federation of semi-autonomous provinces and States, or Staadts, governed at the highest level from the city of Pratoria (for political purposes), Bloemfontein (the centre of legal jurisdiction) and Caarp Town. (nominally the legislative capital, but a city in a very all-year-clement area and Home to some very influential people and their Families).**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Smithville, Urabewe:_

Johanna!

Smithville is… basic. There is a mixture of shacks, shanties and native-styled huts jumbled together with no obvious streets or alleys and certainly not even an Ankh-Morporkian level of awareness of waste or sewage disposal. It is a port, of sorts, on the River B'Ware, and many canoes and dug-out boats can be seen moored or hauled up here at the riverside. There is a continual low-level and very unhurried procession of laden canoes arriving or departing, with goods being loaded or taken off as suits the need. We are looking to get passage on one of these boats down-river into Lake Karibou (which the local natives call Lake M'Boili) and if possible across the _kaplyn_ into Smith-Rhodesia.

Lady Jane thinks this may not be as straightforward as we would think, as the nearest thing to an Urabewean police force and security organization polices the lake for smugglers and poachers. On the other side, the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy maintains a presence on the great lake system that marks the border, performing customs duties and patrolling against native incursions. The notional border runs down the exact middle of the lake and because Urabewe is a small, powerless, state sandwiched between three extremely well-armed neighbours and is powerless to resist incursions, our Navy is continually watching for signs of Matabele or Zulu military units rattling assegais at us from the other side of the River.

Indeed, "border incidents" and "misunderstandings" are commonplace here. Often involving hundreds of men on both sides. I suspect all our Governments are resigned to this and accept that at least it's good training in the wiles and strategies of those bloody Mats/the perfidious White Howondalandians/the verdammte Zulu/those insolent ones who will not accept the rule of the Paramount House (of either Matabele or Zululand. Quite often the fighting on this border is between Matabele and Zulu, while we White Howondalandians observe from our side of the River and lay bets.) There has to be an outlet for safely venting aggression and violence, the thinking goes, and it's the long frontier of Smith-Rhodesia.

Smithville is as near as it gets to a capital of Urabewe. A very minor, impoverished and powerless Paramount King has a very small, run-down, Royal Kraal on the edge of the town and a personal guard of less than ten men. This single-figure impi is tolerated by Zulu and Matabele alike, and is as big a conventional army as Urabewe gets. Somehow, I think of Lancre and Shawn Ogg when I look at one large, plump, good-natured and unthreatening Urabewean soldier at the gate of the Royal Kraal. Rivka has already nicknamed it Lancre Castle.

There is a trading compound and general stores at the riverside which is run by a consortium of traders largely called Patel and Singh. Strangely, there is not a Dibbler among them (although there is talk of a mobile trader called Bash-Me-Brains-Out-With-Me-Own-Knobkerrie N'Dhiblwa who passes by occasionally. You have encountered him on one of your own previous visits?)

This town is a melting pot of the races and ethnicities of Howondaland. Strict believers in apartheid would be horrified. The principal ethnicity is what our nation would categorize as _coloured,_ testimony to the large and cheerfully indiscriminate melting that has gone on here, over the years, in this particular pot. There are black Howondalandians here of various tribes and ethnicities. There are a few red-skinned (more a sort of copper) Indians. The Patel and Singh families are clearly Ghatian and Klatchistani. Another investor in the general stores and trading dock is called Cohen. He and his wife, by the way, were holding a letter from Yenta Goldberg, who clearly anticipated that Rivka would be coming this way. We have been invited to Sabbath-eve dinner. One river-boat is clearly a dhow of Klatchian design and its crew are unmistakably Klatchian. Lady Jane has reassured us that they no longer seek or trade in slaves. Openly, at least. And there is even an Agatean family here. How they got here, nobody knows. But in one direction, the seawards one, it is possible to navigate to Port Smith-Rhodes on the coast, so long as you know to bypass, by land, the great Verrucania Falls. People doing this tend to moor up just short of the Falls where there is a landing stage, take the land trail down the side of the precipice, with trains of bearerscto manually ferry their goods, and re-embark on a different boat on the lower side. People who do not know this tend to discover the beauty and majestic grandeur of the Falls in a somewhat terminal way.

But the majority here have various degrees of intermediate brown skins and live as they can. We have agreed a sum with two local sisters (of interesting parentage and names!) who are laundering our clothing. It requires skilled attention after the jungle passage.

We are working at the Mission Hospital on the outskirts of town. At least here, a stricter hygiene and sanitation regime prevails. It must do, as this is primarily a hospital and a relief station, set up by concerned religions of the Central Continent. The Omnian missionary here would disagree: he thinks of it as primarily a church to address the soul in need of salvation, with a hospital attached (as an afterthought) to serve the attached bodies.

The sisters here are Nuns, of the Spiteful Sisterhood of Seven-Handed Sek. Sister Sadista Excruciana of Chirm is a gentle cheerful soul who goes about her duties with love, compassion and great humanity. Sister Misanthropia Genocidia specializes in midwifery, paediatrics and childcare and is always surrounded by crowds of adoring happy children who love being close to her. Sister Ira Deorum is an optimist with a touchingly heartfelt belief in the mercy and compassion of the God she serves, who seeks to manifest that in every aspect of her working life. They are three of the nicest and most decent people I have ever met. **(1)**

Their chapel is a shanty affair made of bamboo poles, woven rush wickerwork and a roof of thatched broad leaves, but is used multi-denominationally. To the nuns, it isn't as important as the hospital and surgery. By the way, devotional statues of the god Seven-Handed Sek are… well, they certainly focus the minds of the believers. Sister Ira Deorum explained to me that there is a symbolism to the number seven and each of the seven arms represents an attribute of humanity. You can have relatively conventional statues which have three arms on each side of the body, for purposes of balance and symmetry and artistic proportion.

And then you see where the odd seventh arm goes.

It all depends on the sense of humour of the sculptor, or which essential attribute of the God-Man relationship they wish to emphasise. The Ghatians have a six-armed Goddess and will speak in mystical terms of the _chakras_ , the seven centres of spiritual and psychic power, which progress from the "base of the torso" to the crown of the head and become progressively more exalted and rarefied. Ponder once said something about magic being a product of bringing two of the recognized _chakras_ together in harmony, the head and the heart, Will and Desire. Each has its own light and if these two lights are visualized and blended, Magic happens.

Well, the Sekkians ask the obvious question – why stop at two? They use the full Ghatian seven, each having its own locus in the body, its own character, its own colour of light. Each is represented as an Arm and a Hand. And in this statue of the God, the arms (and hands) are in some very strange places. The seventh (and lowest) especially. Sekkians believe healing is a matter of the seven symbolic Hands being brought together in balance and harmony.

But because they are also a practical Order, Sekkian nuns receive thorough training in more practical everyday medicine and healing.

We discovered this was really needed in the case of Horst Lensen.

He is still a _bliksem_ , but somehow he had the will and the strength to survive the ordeal of the Sun Dance. After getting away from Miriam, escaping from Klatch into Ymitury, and crossing Laotan and Smyrrit.

And even after the debilitating ordeal and the wounds to his chest caused by dangling off hooks for up to three days, he still got here to Smithville, crossing the same jungle as we did and evading – or fighting off – the tiny pygmy people and their blowpipes.

In fairness and objective honesty, Johanna, we believe this is amazing. Idiot he may be, but the Dark Council should know he has managed this. We honestly did not think him capable.

And he has suffered. You see it in his face. Damn, I almost want to be maternal and nurturing to him. He is a boy who is ill and in trouble and who needs care.

The nuns are looking after him with great care and compassion, but he is very sick. Sister Sadista Excruciana of Chirm explained that they have cleansed his chest wounds as best they can and cleaned his body and removed quite a few botfly maggots – and those things make me shudder – but the deep wounds in his upper chest give cause for concern. They think it is the case he did not wait for them to heal properly, strapped them up as best he could, and went into the jungle precipitately. Of course the botflies were drawn to reopening wounds.

We have flushed out his wounds with Klatchian _orakh_ , the best sterilizing agent we have, and are keeping them as clean as we can. We are also sharing the elementary nursing duties of bed-wash and bed-pan. It has to be done and I cannot see how we can refuse. But he remains in a fever and high temperature indicating a deeper level of bodily ailment.

Lady Jane says a Pegasus may be due here. We hope so. We feel we need help. There is, for one thing, no Igor here. Maybe this place needs one.

With love, and seeking sleep after a long day on the wards – we are also helping with other patients here.

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _At this point in the story, in "Treetops", the Greystruck Treehouse **(1)** and Ankh-Morporkian Consulate, near Smithville, Urabewe. _

_The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. Later in August._

Hi Johanna!

Well, we caught up with Lensen and really need help and advice. He's lost weight, is delirious, and I suspect there are complications needing to be addressed that we can only manage and not cure. If nothing else, he owes Mariella four thousand dollars, and I have whispered this into his ear along with a warning that if he dies on us, we can get a local witch-doctor to bring him back as an Nzambi (I read the account of your adventures at the Tobacco Farm and know it's perfectly possible here with the right witch-doctor, and Lady Jane admitted that she knows a few). If he thinks he can Llamedos out of it just **(3)** by dying on us, he'd better think again as I intend to have him recalled to his miserable body so he can bloody well work it off.

Is it within Guild exam rules for a Final Run candidate to die, get resurrected as a Zombie and then graduate? I checked the Handbook for Examiners and this is not covered. Graduating as an Assassin must be the sort of dying imperative which is so strong it calls people back to the body they thought they'd vacated, after all!

Anyway. The nuns here are lovely people. You wouldn't think it about the Spiteful Sisterhood but they are wonderful! They are much loved in the town and everyone respects them.

The Omnian missionary who is attached to the mission is a sort of local priest and at best is happily tolerated. As he is prepared to empty bedpans and roll bandages, the nuns allow him use of the chapel here on Octedays. (He does cover up the devotional statue of Sek, which is carved from wood in the abstract native style. You wouldn't believe where they chose to put the seventh hand. The nuns are tolerant and laugh about this. If belief engenders faith and the Gods are subtly shaped by what humans believe, then Sek is… well, possibly a happier God than most. In the spirit of lady explorers of these regions such as Lady Alice Venturi, I will take an iconograph. She could only sketch and do engravings.)

Octeday services, both Omnian and Sekkian, draw in worshippers of all backgrounds. I am excused attendance due to being inconveniently Cenotian: Mr Cohen, of Patel, Singh, Achmed, Cohen and N'Dbhlwa (the local trading consortium) was kind enough to invite me round to Sabbath eve dinner and religious observance. He had a letter waiting for me from Yenta Goldberg reminding me of the usual. Mariella asked how that woman knew. I said _gevalt,_ believe me she **knows**. Yentas have a better spy network than the Institute of the Invisible Shield. I suspect they **are** Cenotia's intelligence agency. Yentas get to know everything.

Anyway, Mariella was consternated to see that part of the service congregation on Octeday was a troop of five or six Zulu warriors. They were peaceable enough and stacked their spears, clubs and shields at the door of the chapel, respecting the rule of no weapons in Church. It was interesting to observe Zulus closely. Big, strong, muscular men, well-disciplined, looking like formidable soldiers in a fight, none much shorter than six feet, none older than middle thirties. Extremely lean and fit.

I was reminded of Ruth N'Kweze saying that the Zulu Empire permits complete freedom of religion and all faiths are welcome. Provided, of course, they don't preach sedition from the pulpit or advocate, for instance, overthrow of the Paramount House and establishing a Zulu Republic. Ruth said there are limits to freedom of conscience and anyone advocating reform of this sort is free to advocate it to, for instance, her father's hungry pet lions.

Mariella felt she had to attend the service and was consternated at the Zulu presence. Lady Jane, who turns up to Octeday worship because this is Keeping up Standards and something she strongly feels her position demands of her (a combination of Lady of the Manor, village witch, and the sort of Lady Who Organises) remarked that Omnians have a sort of special favour in the empire, and reminded us that an Omnian missionary and his daughter, out of Lawkes' Drain, were present in the Royal Kraal on the day of the outbreak of war. The then Paramount King personally saw to it they were not molested and were allowed to leave peaceably and without fear to return to the mission station at Lawkes' Drain. But then, your great-grandparents were there and it's in your great-grandmother's journal **. (4)** She must have been an extraordinary woman: a prisoner of the Zulus, then fighting in the War of Independence against Ankh-Morpork when she was nearly sixty.

Afterwards we compared notes. Lady Jane said she'd had a quiet word with the Zulus, who are part of an impi based just over the border and who are allowed by their indunala to take a local leave to attend an Omnian service on Octeday – this is the nearest chapel to them. They know not to make trouble in her domain. She once had occasion to explain this to the induna and his senior indunala _s_ of the nearby impi _._ As she is very widely respected, they accepted the point. Having met her, I believe I can see why. Ladies Who Organise again.

She feels they have not attached special significance to the presence of a red-haired civilian Vondalaander in Smithville, but when they mention it, other people higher up the rank structure _will._ Lady Jane also looked up into the sky downriver, and said the monsoon's on its way, she'd give it a week at most. Another good reason for the two of you to get cracking and move on. You get hurricane force winds whipping up the lake, she said. Dangerous for boats. Nothing moves.

So.

The monsoon hurricanes are on the way, and there could be lots of armed Zulus looking for Mariella. And not to shake her by the hand as one of the honoured and acclaimed Smith-Rhodes family, who are widely admired and respected in these parts. I suspect the opposite applies.

Horst Lensen is also likely to be considered a dangerous enemy by the Zulus. Even Mariella feels he deserves more than being assegai'd in a hospital bed. Whatever she feels about him (and I am not going to raise what I _really_ think with her again. She got quite aerated when I suggested it could be the case she has conflicting feelings for the man), he is a compatriot and she cannot leave a fellow Vondalaander to the Zulus. I understand this. I can think of many Cenotians who are a complete pain in the _tukhus_ , but leaving them to an enemy and running away?

Sick or not, we may have to drag him to a boat and take our chances on evading the naval blockade on the Lake. It is possible her country's Naval presence may recognise her as a compatriot with an emergency and assist.

We are making plans. Solly Cohen is looking for a reliable river-user with a good boat who can carry us. He thinks the captain of a trading vessel called _The Howondalandian Queen_ might be prevailed upon when he docks; this is expected imminently.

This is an interesting situation!

Love for now

Rivka (proud to be a friend of my former teacher).

* * *

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Smithville, Urabewe:_

Hi Johanna.

Olga Romanoff arriving was a pleasant surprise. The Pegasus Service is an infrequent visitor here, but Not-A-Kelda Kirstie, by means of her own, was adamant we were in trouble and needed a visit to check on us.

I was at the river talking to the two native women, sisters, who are being paid to wash our jungle-soiled clothing. Let me describe them without comment. Neither is older than about twenty-five or six. They are children of the same mother, who apparently died of crocodile. (a hazard here). Both are of mixed race. Both also have very red hair. And answer to the names "Agnetha" and "Friejda".

Thier long-gone father insisted on this. Their mother thought it was evidence of their father, a white Howondalandian of very persuasive likeability who stayed here for a couple of years, having a sense of humour and wanting to make some sort of point at the expense of a country that had first jailed and then exiled him. Apparently their father intended to stay longer, but several very adamant men turned up by night and said interpreting "exile" as going to the nearest safe border, and living so close he could spit back into Rimwards Howondaland if he chose, was "taking the piss".

"Mister Baal" was then bundled onto a boat leaving for Port-Smith-Rhodes at crossbow point and told there would be a ticket to Ankh-Morpork waiting for him when he arrived. More crossbows would be pointed at him there, as a courtesy detail, to ensure he got on the outgoing vessel. Neither she nor his daughters ever saw him again.

I asked Agnetha and Friejda if they'd ever crossed the border into Rimwards Howondaland. Many people do, apparently, as contract labour on farms and in factories. Urabeweans stay in labour camps and hostels for blacks and coloureds for the duration of a contract, and are then rehired or sent back.

"Just once." Friejda said. "It was okay for a couple of weeks, but people looked at me funny. Then some people from BOSS asked how I came to have red hair. _Bad_ experience. Told them what I knew about my father. It spared me being _really_ interrogated. Then got deported and my pass-cards were marked. _Not allowed to return_. Can't say I worry too much about that."

What do you say? Welcome to the wonderful inclusive and welcoming Smith-Rhodes family? I will have a quiet word with Uncle Baal when I get home. Ask, in a casual sort of way, if he was in Urabewe nearly thirty years ago. I know he was your favourite uncle when you were about five or six, much as Bekki loves her Uncle Danie, then you were told he'd had to leave suddenly. The timescale fits. And on the family plaas there is Gottfried, of course. The one Father asks to go somewhere else, if anyone official visits.

Freijda has a son, an impish and adorable little boy, also with red hair. She remembers her father wanted to call sons names like "Charles" and "Andreas". Her son is therefore Charles Andreas. Uncle Baal always had a strange sense of humour. Funny, but dangerous.

I was spared further embarrassment when the Pegasus arrived. Everyone stopped to watch the marvellous flying horse descending.

And then I was talking to Olga and Kirstie. Kirstie's inevitable Feegle escort went off to explore. No doubt searching for a fight or a strong drink. I took our visitors to see Horst Lensen, explaining the emergency. Rivka was sitting with him and she was relieved to see two people with more practical healing and medicine than is available to us.

They introduced themselves to the nuns and set about doing what they could for Lensen.

I have to admit I feel concerned for him. But whatever Rivka maintains, I do not feel **in the least** attracted to the man! He is good looking, yes, in a well-muscled physically fit blonde handsome sort of way. You cannot deny that. And in a sickbed where he is vulnerable and we are charged with looking after him, you do feel protective and concerned, yes. And he does look sort of cute in his sleep when he is not betraying what an arrogant self-righteous annoying irritating macho bliksem and pielkop doosis he is. But I have known him since before we took the boat to Ankh-Morpork together and so many times I wanted to punch his stupid face or or kick his idiot guava. Which is a nicely formed male guava. Admittedly. But for Rivka to suggest I am being exaggeratedly hostile to him, to mask the fact I'm really attracted to the man.

I mean. Really. You can go off people, I reminded her. Even best friends.

Well, Kirstie and Olga agreed that this was not good. Olga said she'd done wehat she could, but from what Rivka and I had said, it was more than time we were out of here. Witch and Kelda healing works, but takes time and she felt we didn't have weeks. Maybe not even days. She advised us to sit tight and they'd be back with somebody inside a couple of hours.

We waited for them to recall the Feegles (who asked if I needed their help in a fight with they Zulus, big shelpit steaming neeps that they are, aye. They'd seen me fight that dirty great scunner of an Indian and pit the hems on him, nae bother. But a couple of hundred of they Zulus, lassie, we ken ye might need a few hands, know what we mean?)

I have to admit, it was tempting.

But as Lord Vetinari said to us indirectly, he'd be obliged to us not to start any wars... we waved the Pegasus off and saw it blink out of existence in the sky above. Watching natives exclaimed about "strong muti".

We got our journals up to date, and awaited their return.

And two hours later, Matron Igorina was here by return Pegasus. We were so pleased to see her. She'd even brough a couple of cold boxes that were gently steaming with ice.

"Olga explained to Lord Downey." she said. "He agreed we must go to extraordinary lengths to preserve Lensen. He sent me."

Then we witnessed an Igoring operation as she deftly restored and repaired.

"Evidence of necrosis." she said, her fingers blurring as she cut and stitched. " Gangrene, that is. Dirty wounds in a jungle. Not good. Best to scrap the originals and replace. And, ugh, botfly maggots. Let's get rid of those! Replacing trapezius on sinistral side and pectoralis muscle at the clavicular head, by the way. I don't think the Indians sterlize their hooks overly much for this Sun Dance thing. Sounds barbaric. Get all this dead tissue out, sterilize, stitch, renew dermis. Routine all over-body check for other damage and injuries. You did well on the botflies, by the way. parasites like this are horrible little things. Fascinating creatures from one point of view, but when you see what they do when theu get into a body. What did you use to kill the pupae? Klatchian Orakh? Let's just do a visual on the rest of his body... bit of a red face there, Mariella. Everybody's naked under the clothes..."

Igorina looked at me shrewdly. too shrewdly, I thought.

"I'm guessing you've not seen too many naked men before? Well, we're done. Light sedative, two days bedrest, then he's fit to travel - provided his pack isn't too heavy. You might need to divide the contents up and carry them for him if you've got to get out in a hurry? I'd reccomend five days bedrest, ideally, but in two his temperature's going to be back to normal and he'll be able to walk. The new chest muslces come from a donor who was into weight training, by the way. o when they bed in, this young man should be appreciative of having a better chest than he did before! But for now, no heavy exertion. Try to avoid swinging swords or axes for a day or two, for instance, and keep him to light camp duties, nothing heavy. Not ideal, I know, but the Guild think you should try to get over the border to safety as soon as you can. Johanna was shouting that you should get the hells out, and if she senses trouble – there's trouble! Hear you have a boat lined up?"

Igorina straightened up and smiled at the concerned-looking nuns.

"Are there any other patients here you'd appreciate me having a look at? I'm surprised you haven't got an Igor here. It's the sort of place that could use one and I know a few people who'd like the experience..."

And we got ready to leave Smithville.

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** It's like this. The Spiteful Sisterhood of Seven-Handed Sek was born in more troubled times a long time ago, when the attitude to religious belief was a lot more forceful and robust than it is today. So meanings and attitudes have changed and evolved over time – although the practice of Nuns taking religious names in emulation of great Saints of the past is still there. St. Sadista Excruciana of Chirm really loved cats and kittens, for instance.

 **(2)** An extra bonus note. "British" nobility in the "African" jungle. A little footnote to the story of Queen Elizabeth II is that she was on holiday in Kenya, then a British colonial possession, in 1952. Princess Elizabeth and her interesting husband Philip were staying in a unique hotel - a luxury treehouse, in fact, called "Treetops" - when the news from London reached her that her father, King George VI, was now an ex-monarch and the kingeon/queenon particles discharged on the moment of death had passed the monarchy to her. She was up a tree in Kenya when she became Queen. "Treetops" was therefore the only possible name for the Greystruck country seat in Urabewe. **  
**

 **(3)** The Roundworld version is to "welsh" on a debt, Terrible racial slur here.

 **(4)** I know. To my long-stalled tale of the first Zulu War, _**A Ripping Yarn**_. All this is sketched out and coincidentally follows the plot of the film "Zulu" with a few Discworldian twists. Patience! I will get back to the very first Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Honestly.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**


	25. Of Hovercrafts Full of Eels

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-five: hovercrafts and eels, with no bouncy-bouncy  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave.**_

 _ **Damn, I may need to revise an earlier chapter as there's a seriously out-of-sequence bit in one of them. I just didn't realise it would take this long to get them over the kaplyn into Smith-Rhodesia. So an earlier extract from Rivka detailing their arrival there needs to be moved. Headache. Ah well.**_

 _ **EDIT: minor changes for internal consistency, spelling revised in places.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _At this point in the story, in "Treetops", the Greystruck Treehouse and Ankh-Morporkian Consulate, near Smithville, Urabewe and the Charitable Mission Hospital Of The Spiteful Sisterhood Of Seven-Handed Sek (and Omnian mission).. Awaiting Horst Lensen being well enough to travel and negotiating passage by water with a very singular captain._

 _The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. Later in August._

Hi Johanna!

We were passing the time here waiting for Horst Lensen to be well enough to travel. Igorina's intervention and the miraculous speed of Igor healing have made a massive difference. He is aware of his surroundings, sitting up in bed, and blinking with wonder at a new and far better developed pectoral region than the one he originally had. And damn the man, he really does have a good male chest on him. Nice pecs to begin with, even better ones now, after Igorina unpacked her ice-boxes and got to work.

Mariella is sitting up with him providing nourishing soup and some terse conversations in Vondalaans are happening. I am listening in and improving my fluency in your language from what is being said. There are a lot of silences that convey a sort of unspoken meanings – what the witches call "spill words". Mariella is refraining from using words like " _bliksem_ " and " _pielkop_ " and is forcing herself to be concerned and polite, as a good nurse should be. I am not letting on to Lensen that I can understand a fair amount of what is being said. A lot of unfamiliar and new words are working themselves out in context. I am also picking up differences in accent and dialect between them. Lensen's home town of Bitterfontein is a long way away from your Piemburg, in fact on the opposite side of the nation in the Turnwise Cape? I gather it is a more settled and "safe" area a long way away from the sort of troublesome border Piemburg is practically on top of. Also that the Lensen family are very well-off, with large vineyards and wineries.

Farmers dealing with grapes and wine-making do not really have to think all that quickly, perhaps. Grapes are not as mobile or potentially unpredictable as large draught animals, or indeed attacking Zulu impis.

It is clear to me that somehow Horst Lensen has been changed by his recent experiences. He is currently quiet, subdued, thoughtful. Not the bumptious oaf from School who would shout loudly, act before he thought, attract trouble and censure, and basically offer a continual walking reminder of exactly all the reasons why people like you, Mariella, and Heidi van Kruger, chose to leave Rimwards Howondaland and make your way in life elsewhere. I know Rimwards Howondalandian men are not ALL the reason why you chose to leave and some, like your Uncle Pieter and your brother Danie at his best, can be intelligent, pleasant, and even quite clever. Your cousin Julian is an EXTREMELY attractive and desirable guy and I like him very much. (I do know another woman has claimed him, though!) Your father has a certain rough-hewn charm and fundamental decency, and you warm to him – but he is possibly a Rimwards Howondalandian man taken up to eleven and then some way beyond. But on the basis of Horst Lensen as an exemplar of what is typical, the idea of actually living with them, and ending up married to one, must be a good incentive to any intelligent woman to get up and go!

I am still trying to work out the change in him. Perhaps the trauma of nearly dying really does change a person for the better, as we are told. Time will tell as he recovers – the original charmless boor, with a small "b", may re-assert itself as he regains strength and vitality. I know one thing – Mariella will _**never**_ stand for that. I know her too well.

I left them to working out their differences. Mariella has already told me, in as many words, to mind my business. I suspect there is a certain sensitivity here. When he took her hand and she didn't slap it away as I suspect she might have done in normal circumstances, I decided the chaperone should discreetly leave them to it. After all, he was still ill in bed and if he gets too presumptuous, your sister can easily deal with that.

Outside in the town, in what passes for a village square where much business is concluded, I encountered Lady Jane, who was taking her pet for a walk and surveying her parish.

"Hullo, m'dear. Is the invalid better?"

I indicated that he was and gave our hostess an update. She smiled knowingly.

"They say the patient falls in love with his nurse. According to nurses I know, it can be the other way round too. Watch those two, m'dear. Little sparks start big fires. And I'm guessing the three of you are going to be travelling together. Could be nothing, could be something."

She laughed a little. I observed her pet with interest as he groomed himself.

"I keep an eye on these chaps. Wouldn't say I breed them or anything, but I have done my bit to steer the right males to the right females and nurtured a few litters of kittens. Just to improve the general stock, sort of thing. I keep a stock-book back at Treetops. Which males fathered which cubs on which females. Goes back a few years now. They trust me, which is nice!"

Yes. Like Lady Sybil Ramkin, Lady Jane Greystruck has a passion for pedigree animals. In this case…

"Which is sweet of him, as I'm wearing his grandfather. Waste not, want not!"

The leopard, or it might have been a cheetah, looked up at me and – I think – purred. The sound came from the same general sort of feline area, anyway.

"Tickle his belly, he likes that. Don't worry, he's an old sweetie, really!"

I remembered the old lion at the Zoo, Klarenz, the one with the cross eyes, who you raised from a cub. I trusted her and petted the leopard. He purred appreciatively, if you can call a nose like a band-saw "purring", and did the cat thing of rubbing up against my legs. Your Maine Coons will probably be as insistent and just as capable of knocking somebody off their feet when they do the rubbing-against-legs thing?

"I've spoken to a few people." Lady Jane said. She looked round to see who was listening and her voice lowered.

"Word on the jungle drums is that the Zulus are sending a big patrol out this way." she said. "Not sure what they want, but I can hazard a guess. Might be best if you two gels grab your bags and get the boy geed up to move. Quickly. Not ideal, I know, but you really do need to get a shift on. Do _not_ accept a lift from the Klatchians, bee-tee-double-you. Captain Sinbad who runs the dhows here has heard there's a reward on your heads after a certain fire in Klatch. Careless cigarettes cause damage, don't they? If he can knock you both on the head and run you away in chains, he _will_ do. Ghastly man. Look, I've got you an introduction to a chap. Utterly venal and it's going to cost you, but once you pay the fare, he'll get you there. Completely trustworthy for the right money. You've got cash? Thought you did. He's in dock right now. Coming?"

We walked on, the leopard, or perhaps a cheetah, padding silently and proudly alongside his mistress.

She explained that the jungle pygmies have no love for any of the three armies who periodically send patrols this way. The reason why they attacked Mariella and myself is that they thought we were White Howondalandian soldiers and therefore fair targets. (Well, we were dressed like them. Easy error.). Zulus are loathed by the pygmies as they see the little humans as fair targets for abuse and as a somehow sub-human species, useful only as entertainment and for stabbing practice. Vondalaanders are viewed as scarcely much better.

Lady Jane thought that they were even now launching tip-and-run raids with poisoned blowpipe darts at any Zulu patrol coming this way, and both slowing them up and thinning their numbers out.

"Zulus fight best on the open veldt. Where their numbers tell. Oh, they've got jungle specialists in the same way Mariella's people do, but this isn't natural fighting territory for either side. Never gets much above a skirmish in numbers. What gives me pause to think is that if one side sends a lot of men into Urabewe, one of the other sides does as well. And if it gets back over the River that the reason for the Zulu attack is to kill or abduct two White Howondalandians who've washed up here, then t _hey'll_ send soldiers in out of general principle."

Lady Jane gave me a long look.

"That means this town, which isn't much, I know, but I care about it, then becomes a battlefield. _And I'm not having that!_ So there's my biggest reason for giving the three of you a hearty handshake and a fairly emphatic goodbye. Nothing personal, but if you attract a war I want it to be fought _somewhere else_ , you see? Ah, here's the boat."

Then I saw _The Howondalandian Queen_ and met its singular pilot. A wiry, weatherbeaten little man with a lived-in creased face, taciturn in manner. He nodded at me.

"This one of them?" he asked Lady Jane.

Incredibly, in the melting-pot of the river, he was Acerian. That accent stands out a mile. I wondered how he got here: he must have been around fifty and the boat was old, battered and had seen much hard voyaging.

Captain Charley Walnut looked me up and down. He named a fare. I haggled. He wasn't having it.

"He'll settle for eight hundred, m'dear." Lady Jane said, helpfully. "And you _really_ don't have too much choice."

"Eight hundred and fifty." Walnut said.

"And that's cutting your own throat?" I asked.

He gave me a Look.

"Hey, give me a break!" he said, indignantly. "I'm not a godamm Dibbler!"

We shook hands on the fare. Interestingly, while I offered to pay gold (we all carry a roll of gold coins for bribery, barter and negotiation, as we are taught) he preferred Ankh-Morporkian dollars. Notes, preferably. Lighter, easier to carry, and the hardest currency out – you can _trust_ the Vetinari greenback. (The Guild should note this as a guideline to travellers. Paper is lighter than gold.) I said this would not be a problem.

"Gotta leave soon." Walnut said. "Monsoon's comin'. If that hits while we're out there, I'm heavin' to the nearest shore an tyin' up. No argument. I suggest you people get your kit together and be here soonest. And have the dollars ready."

I indicated assent.

Then a running native found Lady Jane and breathlessly panted out an urgent message. She nodded, then gave him a peremptory command. He ran off towards the hospital.

"Get your bags! Get the boy ready to move, fit or not!" she said to me, with some urgency. "Now! The Zulus are half an hour away! In force! And they aren't here for a social drink!"

Captain Walnut nodded, impassively.

"Ah-huh." he said. "I'll make ready. Better get a move on, lady!"

Things then got interesting.

* * *

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), Smithville, Urabewe:_

Hi Johanna!

Igorina's restorative work was marvellous. From a man on the brink of serious illness or even death. Horst Lensen recovered colour to his face, a normal temperature, and full awareness of his surroundings, within a day and a half. Still weak, he was able to sit up in bed and maintain a normal conversation. This pleased me. I felt he might soon be able to at least walk. And all we needed do was to get him over the river and the lake, by boat, into safety.

And he was quiet. Reflective even. Something about him had changed. I wondered what. Even though our time here was ticking away and Lady Jane had warned us to be prepared to move out quickly, I felt I could make time to find out. We had ensured our packs and weapons were prepared and nearby so we could grab them at a second's notice. My machete and daggers were on my body and Rivka was also going armed. Rivka and I had ensured Lensen's pack and clothing, which had cost a lot of money to retrieve in Klatch, were also there to grab at a second's warning. His clothing and boots were at the bedside. In case we had to get him dressed in a rush.

But for now, there was time. Rivka sat nearby pretending boredom and incomprehension. I really wasn't sure how much of our conversation she understood. She's very good at this sort of thing; and I'd given her lots of tuition in _Vondalaans_. She seemingly busied herself getting her journal up to date and reviewing iconographs. I notice she'd taken a few of the unique local statue of Seven-Handed Sek. With the interestingly placed seventh limb. Well, you'll see them soon.

By the way, thank you for relating that you showed Professor Rincewind those pictures we took on the Little Big Horn battlefield. I really wish I'd been there to see the poor fellow be overtaken with his memories, which must have been intense. You reasoned that if this was the right place, and owing to some sort of magical accident he had actually been there, tall story though it seems, he'd _remember_.

And his reaction placed it beyond all possible doubt. He really did need a big restorative drink when he looked at our pictures of the Medicine Trail Coolis, the last ride for General Rjuister and several hundred men beset by attacking Indians on all sides. Several hundred men, including a Wizzard adrift in time and space. You forgave him all the moaning and whimpering of _ohshitohshitohshit, I nearly died_ … **(1)** I bet he never expected to see that place again!

A terrible thing to do to him, Johanna. Although, as you pointed out, he _was_ fighting for the other side in a battle where we were defeated, and our history books all point the finger of blame at "a powerful wizard sent by Ankh-Morpork, in a fit of pique that they were beaten in the War of Independence".

I just never thought we would actually _meet_ that Wizzard!

Anyway. To keep it safe and neutral, Horst and I talked about our families, our backgrounds in farming and the lands our families manage. We talked family and parents and siblings. I talked corn and orchards and cattle; Horst talked about grapes and vines and wine-making. He talked about growing up in the Caarp; I about the Transvaal, Natal and the border region. And for once, perhaps for the first time, I had a decent grown-up conversation with him that did not get my hackles rising. Such a shame he nearly had to die first.

And he was so quiet, no bluster, no bombast, no "Ag, you meisies don't know your place, I'm the big strong capable man here, you girlies should be in the kitchen or raising the kinde as the gods intended."

He wasn't being insufferable.

This is new and different. Admittedly he was recovering from serious injury and the attentions of Matron Igorina. Maybe when he is properly recovered he will be an idiot again. But for now, a boy who has suffered and is recovering. You can be gentle.

"Mariella?" he said. "We have been talking for nearly an hour and you haven't scowled or called me a fool and an idiot or a complete shitheaded dickhead bastard once. Is there anything wrong?"

I wondered if he was testing me. The old Horst Lensen would not have considered this important, or even thought my opinions and feelings worth considering.

"Well, just now, that's not appropriate." I said. "We need to get you well and then move on. You still need to get to Pratoria, remember? We're prepared to assist in getting you there."

He considered this, then his face fell.

"Ag. I'll try. But I must be past the deadline now. Ah well. At least I had the experience and the opportunity to try. And I'll still be alive. I can find something else to do, maybe. Go home as a failed Assassin and learn how to grow grapes and make wine. But. Third son. My brother gets the plaas."

I understood. Oldest son inherits. Spare brothers maybe get some sort of job in the family firm and aren't left destitute. But no inheritance. It's the way these things are done. Danie understands this well enough; our brother Andreas gets the plaas and the business after Father goes. Danie is to make his mark somewhere else. Mere daughters like you and Agnetha and I should marry and find a place in _somebody else's_ plaas. The way we do things. And Horst was motivated, like me, to get through all those selection tests and aptitude tests so that we could get a place at the Guild School and find a different way, somewhere else, in a different country. Nothing to inherit, therefore nothing to lose. Four girls and four boys managed it out of many, and we were both in that last eight.

"You passed. I Failed." he said. "But maybe that's how it works."

I felt compassion for him. Maybe I shouldn't. But I told him to cheer up. The Guild had informed us that an extension had been granted. To account for time spent in transit on the ship between Ankh-Morpork and Ymitury. And again for time spent in captivity in Klatch.

"By my reckoning we still have possibly a month." I assured him. "We can get you there."

Horst visibly cheered up. He reflected on this news for a while.

Then he reached out and took my hand. It was a nice thing. I never thought I'd ever say this about Horst Lensen, or tolerate him touching me for even one second, but it was a nice thing, sincerely meant.

"Mariella?" he said, looking up at me. " _Dankie_. Thank you. And I mean that sincerely. To the bottom of my heart."

At this point Rivka got up, smiled slightly, and left to see what the day was doing. Damn. She maintains I'm secretly attracted to Lensen and my difficulties stem from my not being honest enough with myself to accept this. Which is why I get angry with him and about him. But the man is a total utter _pielkop_!

Well, we talked on for a while. I explained there could be a need to get out at a moment's notice. Hopefully there would be a boat to take us by water over to Smith-Rhodesia. But we would have to leave quickly. Did he think he was fit to walk, at least a few hundred yards down to the river and board a ship? I explained the possibility that there might be Zulus coming for us, and that they would not be gentle.

He considered this.

"I believe I can walk. But my arms feel strange."

He felt his healing chest, gingerly.

"These are different muscles from before. Bigger. Thicker."

I explained about Matron Igorina and how she believes if an Assassin needs any replacements, she seeks to instal only the very best. And to upgrade if possible.

"She was here, then? I thought I dreamt her."

"We brought her here. You have heard of the Pegasus Service?"

"Ah. Again, _dankie_."

He squeezed my hand again. Then his head perked up.

"Mariella. You said. _Assassin_. And not _Student_?"

I frowned slightly. Did I give it away?

"Well, we have to help you get to the Guild bureau in Pratoria first. But getting your pink slip is not impossible."

And then Rivka burst in again. Two natives followed her. She directed them to grab our packs.

"Leave the crossbows!" she said, urgently. "Mariella! We've got to get out NOW! There are Zulus coming! Get him dressed!"

Horst let go of my hand and swung his legs shakily out of the bed.

"Perhaps he can get himself dressed. By himself." he said, reaching for his clothes. I threw him his trousers.

Rivka grabbed her crossbow and threw me mine. She quickly loaded it, both over and under.

"Got a boat set up." She said. "If you've got around a thousand dollars in notes? That money belt you think I haven't noticed? Get it ready, the captain won't go without being paid. The natives work for Lady Jane, by the way. They'll get our packs there. We've got to RUN!"

And we ran, or rather walked quickly, steering Horst Lensen, who was fairly unsteady on his feet.

And, as narrative causality dictates, just as we reached the jetty where a tired and dirty old ship was waiting, the first of many Zulus burst from the tree line some distance away. This is not good. I know how fast they can move. And this would be my first combat with them.

"You saved my life twice." Horst said. "Leave me a crossbow and I can slow them down while you get away…"

"You think we're going to _leave_ you? Sincerely meant and I appreciate the gesture, but think like a bloody Assassin, will you, for the first time in your life?" I said. "We've sweated blood to keep you alive, for one thing."

Something was missing. I thought, then added

" _jou pielkop bliksem!"_

as an afterword. Horst grinned sheepishly. Normal relations resumed.

The natives had thrown our packs into the boat and run for safety. We followed the baggage.

The sallow and seedy-looking captain made no move to cast off and stood with his hand out expectantly. Rivka got into a defensive position with her crossbow. I realized and fumbled at my waist. I pushed a handful of rolled dollars at him. High denomination notes.

"Oh, gevalt!" Rivka screamed, as Captain Walnut made to count the cash. The Zulus were getting nearer. They were not friendly. And that was a war song.

"Better get moving." the Captain decided, as I counted perhaps thirty Zulu warriors with more coming up behind. Satisfied, he stashed the money into an inside pocket.

"Maybe fifteen each." Rivka said, cheerfully. "good odds."

She passed pistol crossbows to Horst Lensen, and said he could have the leftover five or six. And not to waste any shots. Captain Walnut used a boathook, or a gavel, or a rowlock or something, to push off from the side. And then they were near enough to shoot at. My first combat with Zulu soldiers.

Well, you push past the fear when they throw down a challenge and charge you. This wasn't a cross-country race against Sissi N'Kima where we were competing in earnest but both of us would be alive afterwards. This was the real deal. Assegai and knobkerry against crossbow and machete.

A loose volley of crossbow bolts brought down six or seven. Bodies fell on the landing jetty and slowed them for a moment as we reloaded. At least Horst Lensen can shoot straight. Even debilitated by injury.

Then as the boat pulled away, painfully slowly, we fired a last volley and drew swords. Rivka considered a throwing knife for an instant then pushed it into her belt. There was no way to retrieve it afterwards and a weapon would be used once and lost. One, then a second, leapt from the end of the jetty and into the boat. I saw Rivka duck under the spear and then her curved Zlobenian sabre flashed. One down.

Mine leapt for me and we feinted, assegai against machete, for a few parries. _He's a foot taller, far stronger, and has a longer reach with his weapon. I'm going to die…_. I thought.

Then I remembered Ruth N'Kweze's generous tuition in Zulu fighting tactics. On your back lawn at Spa Lane. How to get inside the shield and the spear and…

I'm sure Ruth will forgive, and perhaps approve, that I remembered her training, and killed my man. The look of surprise on his face as he went down… Horst Lensen shot a third, as he tried to scramble into the boat, encumbered by his weapons. A fourth was pushed off by Captain Walnut, who used an oar or something to swipe him back into the water.

We were pulling out of leaping-into-the-boat range now. A fifth Zulu tried to get in. I stamped on his fingers as he grabbed for purchase on the gunwhales, or strakes, or walls, or whatever. He let go and fell off.

Not many of the Zulus on the shore had projectile weapons. I recall that they disdain crossbows and bows and prefer to fight at close quarters, seeing this as more fitting to the warrior. And their marksmanship is poor. The bolts went hopelessly wide.

I was now more angry than frightened. I decided, if I was the one they wanted, to let them know I'd got away. I took off my hat and let my hair fall. They'd see it from the shore, and _know_.

" _Useke wabuyela!"_ I called, hoping I'd got it right. I waved my machete in the air. They'd see that. _"_ _Ngingovelele!_ _Yena ngubani_ _ufukabornvu izinwele!"_

It exhausted about a quarter of my isiZulu vocabulary. But it pays to advertise.

There was an answering shout of " _Hai!_ " from the shore. Meaning, I guessed "We hear you. We have taken note."

Rivka and Captain Walnut were pitching the dead Zulus aboard the boat back into the water. Rivka had taken the shields, weapons and head-dresses as trophies. As I was adding another phrase, one Sissi N'Kima had coached me in until I was word-perfect, without telling me what it meant, the waters around the boat suddenly boiled and what I'd taken to be inert rotting tree-logs floating in the shallows opened their mouths, revealing lots of teeth. One stunned Zulu was frantically swimming for the shore as the crocodiles awoke to a big dinner. I hope he made it. The crocs went for the easier meat, anyway.

" _Umkhumbi wami ugcwele ngenyoka zemanzini!"_

Captain Walnut nodded in an imperturbable way as he pieced together what I'd said.

"Good war cry. _She who is the Red Death has returned_. Nice pune or play on words, too. Red hair and red blade. But that one about _my thing which floats on a cushion of air is filled with eels_?" **(2)**

I'll have a word with Sissi if I see her again. She assured me that's a good all-purpose phrase in isiZulu. Ah well. And yes, the Red Death, properly speaking, is _Johanna_ Smith-Rhodes. You will forgive me for borrowing your Zulu title to taunt them with? I was Red Death to at least one and maybe up to five of them. They should remember which family they're dealing with here.

And, as Smithville receded and our last glimpse was of Lady Jane, hands on hips, remonstrating furiously with a Zulu officer who was nervously backing away from her, and the river B'Ware began to widen as we approached the inland sea of Lake Kariobu, I contemplated Home, Smith-Rhodesia, on the other shore. We'd made it. Home.

Or so I thought.

I was contemplating a few weeks' easy travel across my own native country to see Horst Lensen safely to the Guild bureau on DuToit Strass. Then detouring with Rivka to our family plaas near Piemburg. To see everyone again. To reassure Agnetha that her daughter, young Johanna, is really doing well at the Guild School and her teachers have good expectations of her. A braii on the lawn behind our huis. To see Mother and Father again. To talk about you, and Ponder, and the girls, and about Danie and Heidi.

And then the first raindrops fell from a suddenly darkening sky just as we entered the Lake.

Sister and aunt

Mariella

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** to my tale _**Rincewind Among The Redskins.**_ Homage to a certain western movie _ **, Little Big Man**_ , in whch Dustin Hoffman changes sides several times during a battle.

 **(2)** There's a really cool web page out there that translates the line from the Monty Python sketch about the misleading phrasebook , " _My hovercraft is full of eels!"_ into a lot of languages. This is the Zulu translation. Apparently. for all I know it might actually read _"Would you like to rub my nippes?"_ or something similar.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Reading the Wikipedia article on the film "The African Queen." Ideas are forming. This** _ **cannot**_ **be omitted in a Discworld Howondalandian context. If I missed this one, forgiveness would be hard to obtain.**

 **Bloody Word has reset to default American English. Every time I try to reset to British English it reverts back. So there'll be a lot of variant spellings here, ie "marvellous" coming out as "marvelous", "civilize" as "civilise", the "colour/color" thing, and so on, if I don't spot and correct.**

 **isiZulu to English; looking for a good translation of "she who is the Red Death". Note to native speakers – these are machine translations backed by intuition, if you know better I'm not proud.**

 **Ufuka – Death**

 **Izinwele – hair, of hair**

 **-bornvu (suffix) – red in colour (also "orenji", "** **wolintshi"** **– orange, russet, auburn)**

 **Ufukabornvu izinwele? (Death which is red of hair)**

 **yena ngubani – she who is the...**

 **ngingovelele – I am the most renowned…**

 **Ngibuyele! – I have returned!**

 **Useke wabuyela! – She has returned!**

 **And, amusingly, on a translation site:**

 **Umkhumbi wami ugcwele ngenyoka zemanzini – my hovercraft is full of eels.**

 _ **More Python-related observations:**_ **John Cleese on original thinking, getting round the dreaded writers' block, and a dig at (I suspect) Michael Palin:**

As always, results come from better decisions in difficult times.

I was always intrigued that one of my Monty Python colleagues who seemed to be more talented than I was but did never produce scripts as original as mine. And I watched for some time and then I began to see why. If he was faced with a problem, and fairly soon saw a solution, he was inclined to take it. Even though he knew the solution was not very original.

(Cleese reacted differently than his colleague:)

Whereas if I was in the same situation, although I was sorely tempted to take the easy way out, and finish by 5 o'clock, I just couldn't. I'd sit there with the problem for another hour-and-a-quarter, and **by sticking at it would, in the end, almost always come up with something more original.**

 **Hmmm. Looking for a resolution to the Mariella-Horst situation that at least puts a twist into the painfully obvious….**


	26. The Howondalandian Queen

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-six:**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave.**_

 _ **Damn, I may need to revise an earlier chapter as there's a seriously out-of-sequence bit in one of them. I just didn't realise it would take this long to get them over the kaplyn into Smith-Rhodesia. So, an earlier extract from Rivka detailing their arrival there needs to be moved. Headache. Ah well.**_

 _ **Taking that orphaned and out-of-sequence bit from several chapters ago and putting it into its proper context. Blame its earlier appearance on History Monks or something.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. A traveller in Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, the Sub-Nef, and the Great Plains, becoming a honorary member of the Ogglala Sioux Nation with the warrior name of Prickly Pear Girl, alongside her friend who was given the warrior name of Ginger-With-Freckles. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegais, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _At this point in the story, in passage by water with the very singular captain of the Howondalandian Queen, a trading riverboat._

 _The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. Later in August._

Hi Johanna!

Well, after many eventful adventures, a short trip through the jungle belt, a fight or two with Zulus and a hair-raising trip on a boat during a severe tropical storm verging on a hurricane, we are now guests in the town of Chirundu in the interestingly-named semi-autonomous state of Smith-Rhodesia. In fact, because of the unorthodox method of our arrival and the direction from which we travelled, we were briefly taken for unwelcome illegal border-crossers and the three of us were detained on arrival for questioning. Apparently, we should have crossed in the approved manner at the Otto Beit Bridge and petitioned for admission at the heavily fortified customs and border guard station on the Smith-Rhodesian side. As at the time we were being pursued by a determined impi of Zulu soldiery, we pointed out that while the Smith-Rhodesian authorities were making their minds up as to whether or not we were legitimate travellers, it could very quickly have become an academic point. At assegai point. But more of this later.

Chirundu is right at the very Hubwards extremity of the confederation of states known as The Union of Rimwards Howondaland. It marks the furthest Hubwards extension of your peoples and is essentially the place where the Boors and others could no longer Trek. It is largely reclaimed from the surrounding wild forests and jungles your great ancestor encountered According to the standard history, this place marks where the white man civilized the wilderness and brought it into settled prosperity, despite unfriendly and hostile natives in need of Civilisation, where a wilderness neglected for millennia by the blacks (thus proving their inferior status) was brought into prosperity and bloom.

I suspect this is not the whole story.

The town marks the only possible river crossings over the B'Ware and Brown rivers, which converge here into the Lake M'Boli system, known to White Howondalandians as Lake Karibou. This wide lake system is many miles wide, almost an inland sea, and flows to the majestic Verrucania Falls **.** (Or so we are told: we won't get to see them on this trip.)

Chirundu, the only place where the rivers might be forded, say by a large army composed of either Matabeles or Zulus, is therefore of strategic importance. The town thus has the appearance of a very large Army barracks with a settlement attached as an afterthought. The people here have a mentality akin to a garrison besieged in a fortress.

Immediately over the river is the notionally independent Howondalandian state of Urabewe. This very minor kingdom is sandwiched in between the Matabele Kingdom and the Zulu Empire, and is allowed to exist as the two great Black Howondalandian powers agree that the less direct contiguous border they have, the better. Rather like Djelibeybi persisting beyond all reason long after its time, because both Tsort and Ephebe agreed there were advantages to a neutral "buffer zone" in between them. And diplomats like Lady Jane Greystruck, a woman who _seriously_ went native shortly after her arrival here, are also formidable people in fighting for Urabewean independence and neutrality. No doubt her forceful views are backed, at the higher level, by the considered policy opinions of Lord Vetinari.

Urabewe has a sort of peace treaty with Rimwards Howondaland and a degree of trade and mutual interaction goes on – hence the freedom to travel between the two countries via the Otto Beit Bridge. Manufactured goods out of Rimwards Howondaland go one way; a reserve of dependable cheap labour, hired for the day and strictly vetted, comes the other. The Urabewian economy – at bottom, the daily wages of many of its citizens - depends on the goodwill of all three of its neighbours, and its leaders dance on a very narrow wire. But the country is powerless in itself with no standing army and perhaps a handful of ramshackle patrol boats (the obsolescent hand-me-downs of the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy, provided as "goodwill aid") policing the maritime border on the Lake. As we discovered, Matabele and Zulu troops come and go through Urabewian territory as they will at need or whim. And as you have read by now, did we ever discover this.

We do not plan to stay here very long and in fact, arrangements are being made for us to take passage to New Scrote, the state capital.

But first, how we arrived here.

Having beaten off the Zulu warriors who were intent on capturing or perhaps killing a member of the Smith-Rhodes family (and a bonus Assassin of Rimwards Howondalandian nationality), we made safe our weapons and busied ourselves with stowing our packs and equipment about the Sailing Ship _Howondalandian Queen_. Our imperturbable Captain, the wiry and weatherbeaten Charley Walnut, indicated appreciation of our fighting skills and asked if any of us had any experience with boats of any kind. For Mariella and myself, this is a skills gap. All we know is that they float on water (ideally), a large sail catches the wind and drives you forwards, and a sort of rudder arrangement attached to the back permits you to steer. We were perfectly happy to allow other people to know all the fine details connected with this general perception. As sailors, we have a skills base comparable to the agricultural knowledge of kibbutzim recruits.

Surprisingly, Horst Lensen said he knew a little, having gone boating and yachting for pleasure in the ocean coast nearby to the Caarp. Apparently his family vineyards are near enough to the coast, and to a significant river system, to allow this. Captain Walnut nodded approval and supervised his taking the long handle thing that controls the rudder. Then pronounced himself satisfied and went forward to set the sails.

With Lensen at the long handle thing, called the tiller apparently, Mariella and I took inventory of weapons available. We had expended quite a few crossbow bolts in the combat, both regular and pistol. This was on top of those expended in the earlier engagement with the jungle pygmies, and those unavoidably lost when hunting game on the central plains. We also had Horst Lensen to consider. Our estimation was that we had enough munitions for one more intense engagement, then the crossbows would be functionally useless and it would be close-fighting weapons only, a dozen or so throwing knives excepted. All three of us had swords and machetes, but Mariella expressed concern that Horst might not be able to fight effectively until the Igorina-restored chest and upper body muscles had properly settled in and healed. Light work steering the boat was probably as much as he could reasonably do for a few days.

We considered him as we settled into the river voyage, watching the river widen as we approached the lake system. Somewhere on the misty opposite side would be a safe landing in a friendly country where Mariella could count on family and friends. It was a tempting prospect. Captain Walnut was aiming on running us directly into a port town where, after minimal customs and border control checks, two of us at least would be welcomed as citizens and compatriots. Then a hotel and a bath and a good dinner and we could make travel plans to move on. Mariella wants to get to a place called New Scrote, the biggest city.

She has solid family reasons for that. There's a statue of the Founder in the main square that she wants to see. This will be interesting.

There is also a regular carpet flight to points further Rimwards. We think that even though the Klatchians run the carpet service, they will refrain from arresting a Rimwards Howondalandian in her own country, despite a price being on our heads. This would cause too much strife, diplomatically speaking. And at least we can pack Horst Lensen on a carpet to Pratoria, so the last stage of his personal odyssey is done in comfort, after his privations.

We considered him, placidly working the tiller as we sailed on. Horst was subdued, quiet, seeming faraway. This could partly be attributed to his injuries. But remembering the loud, abrasive, largely unsympathetic person we'd endured for seven years, I wondered if there might be deeper reasons for his silence and the strange sense of reflective thoughtfulness. He'd been captured and enslaved. He'd said nothing of his treatment at the hands of Miriam bint-Alhazred. I wondered what effect she had had on him. It can't have been _too_ bad, given her stated purpose for keeping him a prisoner for at least a month.

Then he'd managed to escape (with Miriam's covert assistance). He'd crossed the same desert we had. No small feat. He'd presumably avoided the Klatchian Foreign Legion who guard the border. He'd crossed Laotan and Smyrrit. And gone a long way across the Central Plains before being captured by the Ogglala Sioux. Who had tortured him with the Sun Dance. Impaled by hooks through his chest, suspended from a pole, and being made to suffer days of blood loss, dehydration and exhaustion. Would that have brought about a vision, a change in his mind?

After minimal recovery, he'd managed to stagger through forest and jungle into Smithville, three-quarters dead with the beginnings of gangrene in his chest wounds. And survived that too, admittedly with our intervention. Oh, and he acquitted himself well in the fight with the Zulus. That should count too.

Maybe he does have what it takes to qualify as an Assassin. In fairness, the Guild should take all this into account. And facing all that, and having been close to death twice and surviving. Could this have changed the man, turned the horrible loud callow over-confident boy into a man?

Horst Lensen, perhaps, has grown up.

I raised this with Mariella. She shrugged.

"Perhaps not a _complete_ doosis bliksem." she said. "But it will be a long time before I stop attaching the word " _pielkop_ " to the name "Horst Lensen."

"Why break the habit of seven years?" I agreed. While considering the food reserves available to us to feed four people, we discussed other things.

"Wish I'd brought a whip." Mariella said. "But I'm only really just competent with one. Johanna tried to teach me some of the things she knows and I can do a few things, but we agreed it would just be dead weight. I'm nowhere near as good as she is."

"There's one or two in the hold, miss." Captain Walnut said. "If it's any use to you, you can have one. I kind of never got the knack."

"You may as well." I said. "I'm getting the feeling that in your country you'd be under-dressed without one. Like the way Madame Emmanuelle says an Assassin should always wear a sword."

"Ain't never seen a people like yours for whips." Captain Walnut remarked. "Kinda get the feeling a lot of you only wear them for show, though. Accessories."

Horst Lensen stirred uncomfortably. I reflected that at this point the old Horst might have made some loud appalling remark, intended to be humorous, about their not just being there for adornment, and needing to be used on the blacks every so often. You know, to keep your hand in and show them who the baas is. But he remained very silent. I found this remarkable. Maybe he _has_ changed.

We prepared a modest meal for us all.

The river widened.

We were aware of being watched from the port-side bank. Zulu warriors were keeping station with the boat, monitoring our movements. This was ominous.

"You trade all the way up this river. Will you get into trouble with the Zulus for helping us?" Mariella asked.

Charley Walnut considered this and shrugged.

"Hell, probably not. A man has a right as captain of a boat. Anyone tries to get on without your say-so, the Captain can throw him off. By force, if he has to. Otherwise, guy gets on with weapons making a fight, tries to attack your passengers, that's piracy. The Zulus understand that. My ship got attacked. I fought. They respect that. 'Sides, I trade with them. They got landing stages and trading kraals on the River. I trade in goods they want to buy, I trade in information they want to hear. I'm too useful. The local indunas accept I got a living to make."

"Do the Zulus have any sort of fleet?" I asked. The possibility of being attacked from other ships could not be ruled out.

Charley Walnut shook his head.

"They got small fishing boats." he said. "They know the White Howondalandians have bigger boats geared to war and they can't compete. Informal agreement says the Zulus can fish and the whites won't interfere and let them be. Any battle between boats, the Zulus get sunk. They know it."

He paused and reflected.

"For now, anyway. Word is the Klatchians want to train Zulus as fighting sailors. But they got difficulty in getting fighting dhows here. Heard they got military advisors in a military kraal upriver. It's sealed. Can't get close. Fancy talk of _enabling parity_ with the whites, in terms of naval capacity. Godamm Klatchians stirring things. That's bad news for a peaceable river trader. Two bunches of guys who don't get along squaring off with warships. Bad for business."

Mariella winced. I could see her point. I also remembered the Klatchian dhow I'd seen moored at Smithville. What if that was not all it seemed to be? Lady Jane's guarded warning concerning a Captain Sinbad.

Walnut stirred, and considered us.

"News travels slow. But I heard talk of two girls who caused a hell of a stir in Cenotia. A fight on the border. Then a few big fires at a military base. Made the fancy papers. Heard the Klatchians want their heads on spikes. Talk is they popped up again heading Rimwards. Then two girls answering the broad general description on the Klatchians' wanted posters come outta the jungle, and into Smithville."

He grinned and extended a hand.

"If you're the same two, then, hell. I wanna play on the same team! Seems to me they put the word out and it ain't too hard to figure. In return for assistance with upgrading their Navy, the Klatchians asked the Zulus to haul you in. Seems like you little ladies got a problem."

And then the rain started. And didn't stop. And carried on not stopping for two or three days.

* * *

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), on the river B'Ware, in Urabewe and, we discovered, the Zulu Empire:_

Hi Johanna!

At first it was just rain. We steeled ourselves to the possibility of having to bail out the boat. Captain Walnut reckoned it wouldn't be too bad and felt if the winds didn't pick up, he could run us to somewhere on the Smith-Rhodesian side fairly soon. We gathered he was well disposed towards us, and wanted to get the news of Klatchian-sponsored naval activity on the Lake to my country as soon as we could. And heaving into shore was now impossible, as from our point of view the nearest shore was a hostile one.

We were committed. Monsoon or not, the boat had to keep going.

We dropped anchor on the first night in the cover of what Captain Walnut laconically described as man-grave swamp. Not "mangrave". _Man-Grave._ Apparently nothing can get in from the landward side. So, safe from Zulu incursions. And concealed. We rigged tarpaulins, remained fairly dry in the cabin, kept a watch for activity on the river (the monsoon had seriously affected visibility and nothing else was moving out there), and played cards and Travel Word Scramble. A tolerably good hot meal was had by all. We also took stock of weapons and defensive strategies. Captain Walnut was carrying cargo, sacks of mealie grain and beans. We conferred with him, and part of the cargo was redistributed on the deck. Well, at Lawkes' Drain, mealie sacks were proven effective at absorbing crossbow fire. Just in case we came under fire, a minimal defensive screen was established at key points on the deck and lashed into place. "Rather lose the cargo than the ship", as Walnut laconically remarked.

Horst Lensen did as we directed capably enough, but still seemed subdued and faraway. This wasn't too alarming; he'd snapped out of it well during the Zulu attack to remember his Assassin training and fight creditably enough. I felt he could be relied upon again at need. And he was getting his strength back – I checked the operation site as Matron Igorina had instructed, to be absolutely certain he was not asking too much of healing tissues. But everything was knitting together, as you might expect, and it was as marvellously fast as you could expect from Igoring.

And we talked more. He was reluctant to talk of his time with Miriam, except to say he'd heard of the Hashishim and the way their training suddenly takes the candidate from near-Hell and he wakes up in a comfortable place with good food, good drink, soft beds and a beautiful woman. From Hell to Heaven.

He saw me frowning and hurriedly said he was aware he owed me four thousand dollars and that I'd paid for this. And thank you, Mariella. Since you technically own me, I heard, do I call you Mistress?

Rivka laughed. I had the feeling that he was testing me again, damn the man. And being put on the defensive by Horst Lensen is a new and not especially welcome thing. I really didn't think he had either the brains or the sensitivity. I sensed the tables turning. Something new is emerging in him and damn him, damn him, damn him, damn him, it's actually quite pleasant. I can endure being in a confined space with the _pielkop_ and not want to either strangle him or run away.

We set off again the next morning, in the driving rain, navigating by instinct and dead reckoning. Rivka and I discussed strategies for dealing with any attack from water. Ideas emerged.

And then the damned wind set in.

* * *

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. At this point in the story, in passage by water with the very singular captain of the Howondalandian Queen, a trading riverboat._

The howling wind came from nowhere and sent the boat pitching uncontrollably forwards. It was all we could do to get the sail down before it was ripped away and even then it was a fight to fold and secure it.

I recall a nightmare of surging forwards in the water with no visible shore on either side. I glimpsed a line of moored buoys which I sensed marked the border between Urabewe and Rimwards Howondaland. There was an impression of blue, white and orange about them. Well, how else would you know whose nation you were very nearly in if they didn't mark it with the national colours?

Between us we kept the boat upright and headed forwards into the wind, pelting forwards at a far faster speed than we thought a boat could go. With the sails down there was a sensation of gradual slowing: but it took several hours of hurtling, with the four of us tied into safety ropes lest we be swept overboard. Captain Walnut and Horst Lensen, the two people who knew about boats, appeared to take it in their stride.

I remembered the tales in our holy books of Prophets who encountered bad seas. One was swallowed by a whale, as I recall, and the story of Nonpo did not fill me with much solace in religion at that time. And another was destined by the crew to be thrown overboard as a sacrifice to the false water god, but persuaded them of the eternal truth of -m. There is also an apocryphal story of one who got out of the boat during a storm on a lake and _walked on the water_ to calm his friends' fears. I seriously doubted that one. Or it would be official. Canon, even. _No way_ was I trying to walk on _this_ water. I doubted the apocryphal Prophet was walking on water with crocodiles in it, for one thing. That would have tested anybody's appreciation of the miraculous. You can get out of a whale, yes. Out of a crocodile, not.

No, we Cenotians are not made to be sailors. The great G-d -m divided land and sea for a reason.

And then the waters narrowed, high bluffs were visible on both sides, and we were shooting at speed between the pillars of a bridge. It hung about a hundred feet above, a thin ribbon in the sky.

"The Otto Beit Bridge." Mariella called. "Smith-Rhodesia!"

Apparently the bridge is the approved, and possibly the only, officially sanctioned crossing point out of and into Rimwards Howondaland. And we were still plummeting forwards at high uncontrollable speed. Oi vey.

"Can still make landfall at Chirundu!" the Captain called, steering the tiller deftly. "But we got the rapids here… most of the time you can pass them, carefully. In this weather, better brace!"

We braced as the boat appeared to bounce on land and skid forwards, dropping by about ten or twenty feet over a couple of hundred yards. It was bumpy and not good if anyone was feeling seasick. But it contributed to bringing the boat to an eventual halt, several miles downriver from the tantalising bridge that meant home and safety.

I suspected the bridge might have been an illusion of safety, anyway. The Zulus would surely have known to block the far side and wait for our approach overland. We'd have tried for an easy route home and been caught out by overconfidence, trapped in a place we couldn't get out of.

But for now, it was time to check the boat for damage. We were still floating and had not been beached or stranded; small comfort if the passage over the rocky rapids, in just the wrong place for a boat to try and pass them, had holed the hull. Checking ourselves for bruises could wait.

Fortunately there were no breaches in the sturdy hull. The rudder, however, had been damaged and needed attention. Crocodiles precluded going into the water to check. Therefore its mounting had to be carefully dismantled, and the whole thing dragged up into the boat for inspection and repair on board ship. Even with four of us to lend strength, this took most of a day and a lot of ingenious carpentry to remove and patch up splintered boards.

"Guess it'll do, miss." Walnut remarked. "Gotta get it onto dry dock sometime for replacement. It'll hold up till Chirundu."

I felt guilty his boat had suffered damage in our service. Mariella offered to contribute to repairs when he got us to port. The captain grinned.

"Thanking you mightily, miss! We'll see when we get there, huh?"

We appeared to be at anchor on the cusp of a confluence, with one river passing Rimwards and another, meeting it here, flowing more to Hubwards in the jungle forest. Apparently the aptly and unimaginatively named Brown River, and the B'Ware river. While Walnut and Lensen set about manouvreing the patched-up rudder back into its place, Mariella and I did the accepted girlie thing and set about preparing food and beverages. Strangely, with no digs from Lensen about a woman's place being the galley. He'd been only too ready with similar comment for the previous seven years.

The gales having receded to merely "gusty", we were just setting out to follow the B'Ware river to the port town of Chirundu – part of Smith-Rhodesia and therefore of Rimwards Howondaland – when we were waylaid.

We were steering carefully to the Rimwards Howondalandian side of the river for safety, when we saw the boat in the distance making sail to catch us up. Captain Walnut had warmed us that damage to his ship and to the rudder meant he could at best make only half-speed. And that looked like a Klatchian dhow, a vessel that could move at speed over water and which in normal circumstances could outpace him easily. And it had the wind behind it and full sail.

We conferred. It could be an innocent trader out of Smithville. But we'd been warned about the dangerous Captain Sinbad, who – officially – didn't deal in slaves.

Horst remarked that the poor fellows, the Howondalandian blacks, who he'd been fettered with in Klatch, had had to come from _somewhere_. We saw where his reasoning was going.

"I'm not inclined to be a slave again." he said, simply. We agreed.

Mariella looked at me.

"Operation Romanoff?" she said.

"And Operation Perry-Bowen." I agreed.

She took up a concealed position behind the makeshift sandbags and we checked the weapons we would use. We were only going to get one go at this. It had to be _right_.

Keep going. Straight ahead." I instructed captain Walnut as the long sleek dhow drew closer. It was twice our size and while some crewmen were obviously Klatchian, the majority were dark-skinned.

"Four Klatchians." I called to Mariella. "At least twenty Zulus."

"Only twenty-four?" she called back. "Ag. Hope they can swim!"

The Klatchian in the prow was shouting at us over the water. The words were unclear but the meaning was obvious.

"Ignore him." I said to Walnut. "Straight ahead!"

The ship drew nearer. I relayed to Mariella that only a few of the crew appeared to have bows. The rest seemed to be a boarding party of Zulu soldiers.

"Zulu marines." She replied. "Now I've seen it all!"

Now the orders were distinct.

Heave to! Prepare to be boarded. Resistance will be futile.

"Tell him to go voetsaak!" Mariella called back. She had loaded both crossbows. Horst Lensen had my over-and-under with instructions to pick his targets carefully when the moment came. And he would _know_.

"You are in Rimwards Howondalandian territorial waters!" I shouted back. "We have no intention of stopping. Do you really want to start a war?"

Which was a diplomatically phrased way of telling him to go and voetsaak himself. I have no idea why "foot-sack!" should be such a dire insult but I'd guess it's rather like Quirmian Acerians and _sacrées_. "Tabernak!" isn't _that_ bad a word in itself, but in Quirmian Aceria….

The Klatchian sailor grinned gold teeth.

"Do you see any other Rimwards Howondalandians here, Cenotian lady?" he asked. "You will disappear without trace. Now surrender!"

I told him to _kibinimat_ and added a _kuss ummuk_ for good measure – they're like a Cenotian "voetsaak **"(1)–** and noted that in the distance, another boat was rounding a curve in the river, but a long way ahead. It looked military. A second boat was in the distance astern, some way behind the Klatchian but catching up. It looked like a second dhow. We had to settle this quickly.

"Not sure about the one ahead, miss. It _could_ be a Rimwards Howondalandian patrol boat." Walnut called. Possibly an ally, good.

And then the dhow had pulled slightly ahead, maybe a hundred yards to our let. Or port. Or starboard. Whatever. The grinning Klatchian captain motioned to two of his crew, They uncovered a thing in the prow and a long nozzle tilted to point to us. I went to cover quickly as a flame ignited.

There was a rush of fire and heat as a jet of flame passed maybe ten yards in front of our prow.

"Gods-DAMN!" shouted Walnut. "Shot across the bows! They really want us to stop!"

A Klatchian Fire Engine.

"If that vessel ahead is White Howondalandian, miss, they ain't got firepower to match! And they'll know it!"

"Makes it easier." Mariella said. "Fire and water don't mix."

She got into a firing position in the prow and picked her spot to aim.

I lifted the second primed crossbow and activated the weapon. Now we only had five seconds.

Of course, Johanna, you'll remember the training exercise where Natasha Romanoff and Catherine Perry-Bowen turned the tables on you and Miss Band **? (2)** That passed into School legend.

 _They_ only had training thunderflashes. _We_ still had some of the explosive Devices you sent to us in Cenotia. Not many, but enough. And we'd tied them to crossbow bolts. We'd kept them safe and dry and in good order. Now it was time to expend them.

We'd only, at first, decided to hit on or below the waterline to hole their hull. Now they'd given us a gift of a target. Mariella counted to three and loosed. My shot followed a second later. We ducked low as return fire came from the few archers. We heard Horst returning fire and a scream as he got one of their archers. As we were reloading, Mariella's shot exploded. Right on top of the oil reservoir for the Klatchian Fire Engine.

It was a very satisfying explosion.

We each fired a second explosive bolt, aiming this time into a milling mass of panicking men trying to get away from an exploded Klatchian Fire Engine. Then the shockwave from the explosions rocked over our vessel and we had to fight to regain our balance.

When we looked again the dhow appeared to have broken in two halfway along and both prow and stern were sinking into the river.

Looking around, we saw Horst Lensen meaningfully pointing his crossbow at the head of Captain Walnut, who had his hands raised and was backing towards the tiller. Mariella made to shout something angry at Lensen, but the Captain winked and said

Mr Lensen's idea, miss. He'll explain!"

Horst did, later: he said that while we'd soon be Home and safe, Charley Walnut still had to sail this river and deal with Zulus. Best any survivors of the attack saw a man who'd been boarded by desperate pirates, overpowered by them, and forced to do their bidding. (Mariella said "Why didn't I think of that?")

Meanwhile, our Captain looked out at a spreading patch of blazing oil spreading over the water, with a few survivors desperately trying to swim away from it, and made speed to get away from it himself.

Mariella stood in the stern, shook out her long red hair, and shouted that Zulu war cry again. Something about the Red Death having returned, and don't you forget it! Well, it does pay to advertise.

And then we followed the inexorable law of the river and gave assistance to survivors of a shipwreck. Well, the Klatchian captain who'd only a few minutes before been arrogantly telling us resistance was useless. He'd been frantically swimming to avoid the burning oil, and floundered retching on the deck as we sped away. The other dhow coming up behind had stopped to pick up survivors. As it was carrying no deck armament we let it be. Meanwhile the vessel flying the orange, white and blue national flag of Rimwards Howondaland was hailing us. Horst went forward to do the talking.

Mariella informed the Klatchian he was now our prisoner. He shook his head with unwise arrogance.

"You will never be able to keep me." he said. "Pressure will be applied. I am a diplomat, and too important."

Mariella had a machete at his throat in a second.

"Diplomats don't fight." she said. "Or if they do, they don't keep diplomatic immunity for very long. And I could always throw you overboard again. Right into the middle of all that burning oil, for instance."

"I could drag the miserable son of a bitch through it on the end of a rope. Slowly." Captain Walnut offered. His face had all the mercy and compassion due to a miserable son of a bitch who'd just tried to incinerate his vessel with a flamethrower.

The Klatchian shut up quickly.

And then we were under tow from the inshore patrol vessel _Klara Rijker._ Whose captain and crew had witnessed the battle and were full of admiration and compliments.

Three hours later, we docked at Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia. Mariella stepped ashore first. She was Home. I felt happy for her. Horst followed, the expression on his face saying he really couldn't believe he was home again. In a place where the majority language all around was Vondalaans. I even felt happy for him too. I can say this: he stood by us in two hard fights and didn't put a foot wrong. Credit where it is due. He perhaps deserves to be an Assassin.

I followed, the disregarded third.

The mood of elation at having made it Home lasted maybe five minutes. When theimmaculately dressed somewhat fussy little officer turned up, we thought it was somebody coming over to offer congratulations.

Instead he looked Mariella up and down and said

"You have arrived in this country by way of Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, Laotan, Syrrit, the Central Plains and Urabewe. Very good. This is a formal Customs inspection. Have you anything to declare?"

Mariella turned and looked at me.

"What do you know. I'm Home." she said.

Hopefully this letter can go via surface post to New Scrote and be picked up there by the Pegasus visiting the Consulate.

Closing for now

Lots of love and thank you for the teaching, both formal and informal!

Rivka

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Reading the Wikipedia article on the film "The African Queen." Ideas are forming. This** _ **cannot**_ **be omitted in a Discworld Howondalandian context. If I missed this one, forgiveness would be hard to obtain. The unorthodox attack on the German ship that thinks it's got the upper hand, for instance….**

 **(1)** Hebrew, as an old language resurrected from religious liturgy for everyday use, lacks swear words of its own. The Torah and the Bible are somewhat lacking in profanities. so modern Hebrew borrows some hair-raisers from Arabic. The Klatchian would have known _exactly_ what he was being told to go and do by a Cenotian.

 **(2** ) See my story _**Fresh Pair of Eyes.**_


	27. Unhelpful Bureaucracy

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-seven: An Unhelpful Bureaucracy  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave. Who, they are discovering, was no hindrance to having a winning hand.**_

 _ **At last, Rimwards Howondaland! We open as Rivka gets to see the more difficult side of Mariella's native land…**_

 _ **Your author has just been rejuvenated by a few days back in Wales. This did him the world of good and he is looking forward to resuming the story after time spent in Y Bwcle, Yr Wyddgrug, Wrecsam and Lerpwl.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Now after many adventures in the jungle and pursuit by many annoyed people with assegai and Klatchian Fire Engines, on the brink of becoming a guest in, err, Smith-Rhodesia._

 _The Year of the Bewildered Raccoon. August - Spune._

Hi Johanna!

After many adventures and a recent disagreement with Klatchians and Zulus who thought the best way of dealing with a problem was to physically prevent us from arriving here, we are now guests in the town of Chirundu in the interestingly-named semi-autonomous state of Smith-Rhodesia.

Our vessel, somewhat damaged by storm and recent engagement on the water, arrived at the mainly naval port of Chirundu under tow from the inshore patrol vessel _Klara Rijker._ Whose captain and crew had witnessed the battle, and were full of admiration and compliments.

We duly docked at Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia, the hubwardsmost town of the hubwardsmost province of Rimwards Howondaland. Mariella stepped ashore first. She was Home. I felt happy for her. Horst followed, the expression on his face saying he really couldn't believe he was home again. In a place where the majority language we heard all around was _Vondalaans_. I even felt happy for him too. I can say this: he stood by us in two hard fights and didn't put a foot wrong. Credit where it is due. He perhaps deserves to be an Assassin.

I followed, the disregarded third.

The mood of elation at having made it Home lasted maybe five minutes. When the immaculately dressed somewhat fussy little officer turned up with an armed escort, we thought it was somebody coming over to offer congratulations.

Instead he looked Mariella up and down and said

"By the account received from the officer commanding the inshore patrol and Customs and Excise vessel _Klara Rijker_ , you have arrived in this country by way of Cenotia, Klatch, Ymitury, Laotan, Syrrit, the Central Plains, and Urabewe. Very good. This is a formal Customs inspection. Have you anything to declare?"

Mariella turned and looked at me.

"What do you know. I'm Home." she said.

"But you must still pass through Customs." said the fussy little inspector. Although he wore uniform, he did not seem part of a fighting military. The worst sort of uniformed functionary. The two men with him, who had an aura of Watch about them, shuffled their feet apologetically and looked slightly embarrassed.

"You are required to pick up your packs and… those other things… and follow me.".

The _other things_ were the bundled trophy weapons and decorations we'd taken from the Zulus. I hope you can find room for them when they arrive.

"One of us was recently injured." Mariella said, indicating Horst. "He cannot be expected to carry too heavy a weight."

The customs officer clucked impatiently. He imperiously beckoned over several black labourers and made an imperious command in _Vondalaans_. Mariella thanked them as they took up our baggage. The Customs officer raised an eyebrow. Apparently blacks are not normally _thanked_. They just do as they're told here. Nor, I noticed, are they usually tipped for their services. Mariella made a very visible point when she handed over a fistful of loose coin and perhaps a note as token of thanks. The black workers grinned and thanked the baas-lady. I sensed we'd made _some_ friends here.

We were conveyed into an office block with the usual sort of institutional aura about it. Desks, filing cabinets, and several long tables. The two guards took up station at the door and we were instructed to empty and lay out the contents of our packs for inspection. And our pockets and persons.

I pretended ignorance of the conversation in Vondalaans, and followed as best I could, trying to let nothing show.

"Our friend speaks no _Vondalaans._ " Mariella said. "If this is an official interview, then I would request that we use Morporkian as a common language so she is fully informed as to what is being said."

The Customs man shrugged.

"In our country, _meisie_ , we speak _Vondalaans_. You may interpret for her. I have no objection to that."

"Morporkian is our nation's other official language." Mariella said, in Morporkian.

" _hier, om te vondalaans praat."_ the little Customs man said, with an indifferent shrug. "Lay out everything from those packs on the table provided. And empty your pockets and pouches."

We gritted our teeth and set to.

"We may also require a body search and an inspection of clothing."

This time Horst Lensen spoke up.

"I have no objection. But I should remind you that the young ladies should only be searched by female officers. And in a private place. Common decency dictates this!"

The customs officer frowned at him.

"Arrangements will be made. Thank you for your concern for the _meisies_."

Ah. We were now _girlies_. A courtesy detail.

"I would insist on this." Horst said. "And. My travelling companions are more than just mere _girlies_ , by the way."

He grinned. I realised he wasn't being combative or butting heads for the sake of it. Just assertive.

"And it took me seven long years to work that out." he added. "Belatedly."

"Whatever. But bear in mind who is in charge here. Your pack, young man."

Horst emptied and laid out his equipment on the tabletop. A uniformed clerk began methodically listing and itemising it. I sighed. This was going to take some time.

"Weapons and ammunition." the customs officer remarked. "Which you have brought into the country through an irregular and possibly illegal route."

"Can't help that." Horst shrugged. "It goes with the occupation. Which is one shared with the people you persist in calling mere _girlies_."

I realised it was going to be one of those days. Fighting armed Zulus was one thing. Getting past the bureaucracy was going to be another.

"And you might just possibly be interested in the story we have to tell?" Mariella asked, laying out her own crossbows and store of bolts. "We have just fought against the Zulus. And their Klatchian military advisors. _Twice._ Who were seeking to prevent us from entering a country that two of us call Home. That they now have the capacity to launch inshore vessels on the river and the lake, one of which was armed with a very powerful weapon our Navy cannot match?"

The Customs man shrugged disinterestedly.

"That is not my department, young lady. I am merely interested in any actionable items you are carrying into the country. Anything that attracts Customs duty. _More_ weapons, I see!"

He started turning over Mariella's effects. She winced as he rummaged through her clothing.

"Importation of restricted and prohibited items. Such as foreign meat and vegetables. _Strictly_ prohibited."

The biltong that we'd prepared in the Central Plains went. It was probably the last we'd see of that.

Then he found the Klatchian orakh.

"Not a banned substance, but this attracts heavy import duty. Five hundred rand per flask."

"You might as well confiscate and destroy, then." she said. It had served its purpose.

"The penalty fines are mounting up, _meisie_. I hope you are in a position to pay."

"Could we just thump him and go?" I asked, in Cenotian. Mariella smiled and shook her head. She indicated the crossbow-armed guards.

"A military threat to our country and an illegal attempt to detain and abduct two citizens." Mariella said. "I don't suppose there's anybody we could talk to about that?"

There was no reply.

"Then again, not _nearly_ so important as imposing a few thousand rand in fines and import duties. We have to get our priorities right, don't we?"

Then the customs men were consulting, Mariella's sarcasm unheeded. They'd found something of _real_ interest in my baggage. I realised what it was and my blood ran with ice. Damn. I'd forgotten all about it.

But one of the searchers was holding up a block of Klatchian bhong resin. It had been in my pack since we left Miriam. I'd only brought it out to bribe the Indian chief.

"More than a fine, now. Whose baggage is this?"

It was galling to give the officious little man a moment of triumph. I reluctantly admitted it was mine.

"You are now under arrest on suspicion of bringing a controlled and banned intoxicating substance into Rimwards Howondaland. When found guilty, this offence carries a sentence of six months' imprisonment and stroke or a heavy fine…"

I allowed myself to be taken into custody, despite Mariella and Horst making strenuous protests. So my first impression of Rimwards Howondaland was to be a prison cell. How nice. And there was another little twist in the tail. After surrendering my throwing knives and leaving myself almost weaponless, I was marched off by two guards to a holding cell in a less-than-impeccable part of the building. There were six other women in it, and none of them was white of skin.

One of my escort shrugged.

"The lieutenant considers you count as coloured." he said. "Can't put you in a cell with _white_ people, can we?"

Mariella had signalled "I'll get you out. Bide your time." as I was led off. I sighed, and set about biding my time. I hoped she wouldn't wait too long.

* * *

 _From the journal of Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), after eventful travels on the river B'Ware, in Urabewe, and, we discovered, in the Zulu Empire. Currently in "administrative detention" on her arrival in Smith-Rhodesia, where nobody has asked her name yet._

Hi Johanna!

As I write this, I am in a guarded room at the administrative block in the government barracks in Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia, where I have been detained pending "processing" of my personal effects and the calculation of what promises to be several thousand rands' worth of fines and import duties on a lot of "irregular" items.

What a warm welcome Home!

Rivka has been arrested following the discovery of a block of Klatchian bhong resin in her luggage. While we used most of it, judiciously, to ease our passage across the Central Plains, we agreed it should be used sparingly as bribe material, as to many people there it is more valuable than gold and has what we suspect is a far higher value. So just enough was still present on our Customs search to be embarrassing and to draw official censure. She has been marched off to a segregated cell. Apparently her skin is just dark enough for her to be considered _coloured_ , and the laws of racial separation apply. You can't have a coloured criminal corrupting the moral fibre of decent white people, after all!

The Customs officer is a rulebound _bliksem,_ but looking on the bright side, his blind adherence to the rules is a guarantee of his honesty and incorruptibility. I have no fear for our possessions, as everything is itemized, in triplicate, and I have been asked to sign the inventory to this effect.

Horst Lensen has been taken off for a strip-search of his body and clothing. This is in abeyance for me as there are hardly any female personnel here who could supervise such a search, in privacy, as Regulations dictate. Efforts, apparently, are being made to locate one. Whilst waiting for my fate I am in the limbo known as "administrative detention", which is neither arrest nor freedom. At least I was allowed my journal pad and a pen.

I am fuming that customs searches take priority over the story we have to tell. At least Liutnant-Kommander Blentsdorp, the naval officer in command of the _Klara Rijker_ , saw everything, and is no doubt reporting to his superiors. No doubt questions will be asked by people with a better grasp of reality, and it will soon be realized we have disappeared and we need to be spoken to by Naval Intelligence. I hope!

I have ideas about getting out. In the excitement of detaining hardened smugglers who have illegally entered the nation, I note nobody has asked for our names yet. I am looking forward to giving them mine. If I do so at the right moment, it will be interesting to see the look on the face of the officious Customs and Excise officer, who I have discovered is a Liutnant Waalmann. Uncle Pieter might ask a few informal questions concerning him? Not nearly imaginative enough to be a Verkramp, but of the same general unpleasant disposition.

I settled down and waited. There was a window in the cell/waiting room; it opened out onto a sort of central parade area. Down below, possibly three floors down, soldiers were being put through the sort of dreary repetition that occupies much of their time in barracks.

After about an hour and a half, Horst Lensen was ushered into the room under armed guard. He straightened his tunic.

"Well, that could have been more pleasant." he remarked. The guards receded and the door closed behind them.

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben- Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Currently under arrest for drug-smuggling in Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia._

The cell was the sort of holding pen where the Watch throws people awaiting further processing. Slightly too small for six women, bare, grimy, and bordered by open bars with no privacy. And it stinks of sweat and incontinence.

I shrugged. I'd survived seven years at a boarding school in Ankh-Morpork. Prisons therefore hold few terrors.

It wasn't surprising when the one fellow inmate who I'd assessed as being potentially a problem decided to throw her weight around. I had sat myself down on one of the hard wooden benches, one backing onto a wall, when she loomed over me to tell me this was her place. Well, that, I knew, was only a pretext.

I pretended not to understand the _Vondalaans_. The meaning was clear enough. I allowed her to repeat herself. She did so more insistently.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand a word." I said, in Morporkian. She moved her face to mine, and used the low unmistakable voice of threat.

Then I head-butted her.

"But you understood that." I said, and followed through. She ended up on her face on the concrete floor with my boot on her neck and her arm twisted up behind her, as you taught me. Agonisingly painful, especially if you twist too far and the arm dislocates at the shoulder. (And Matron Igorina told me, after treating Pamela Eorle, that rotor-cuff injuries to the shoulder are a pig to fix and she was glad I'd exercised restraint.)

I mean. I was at the Guild school for seven years. For the look of the thing I had one of the other inmates translate the words "I'm not in a very good mood at the moment. The only reason I'm letting you live is because killing you in front of witnesses is not a terrifically good idea right now. But if I'm provoked again, I might get angry enough not to care too much about that."

The point was received. My would-be assailant decided to deal with the problem by ignoring me, which suited me just fine.

Two of our jailers hastened by to find out what the noise was about. They saw the big ill-favoured woman staggering to the furthest point away from me, while I pretended innocence and hoped the bruise mark on my forehead wasn't too obvious. I also pretended incomprehension while they spoke in Vondalaans. There was a gruff warning to you coloured women to bloody well _behave_ in there, do you hear, or else we'll come in with sjaemboeks.

"What was that about?" one asked the other. His fellow shrugged.

"Ag, my guess was Big Bertha tried to lean on that new girl. The dakka-smuggler. New gammie must have donnered her a klap. She looks like a bantam fighter."

"Ag. Dakka-smugglers. They only _sell_ the stuff. They never use it. It's expensive stuff, so of course they use people who can fight. Shows."

They went back to wherever they had their office. And I'd learnt that a "gammie" is a not especially respectful term for "coloured female", and that "dakka" is a local word for "bhong". Well, you get your education where you can.

It was obvious why at least two of my cellmates were here. They were incapably drunk and had been thrown in the cells to sober up. Big Bertha, who sat glowering in the furthest corner, apparently had a history of drunken assault and was at the dangerous stage in sobering up where drink was being replaced by hangover. I kept watch on her, just in case. Talking to the others, I gathered they'd been pulled in for being in the wrong part of town without a pass. That's an offence here if you're black or coloured. They were waiting for their employer or a person of standing, to come and vouch for them. I asked if this didn't feel oppressive. One shrugged.

"Not so bad. At least this is relatively clean, and you get a meal. When they remember. If I was a black, now. You wouldn't want to be caught without a valid pass if you're black. Or go into the cells for blacks. Being coloured gets you privileges."

This was privilege? Ah well. I hoped it wouldn't be a long stay. The latrine facilities were… not good. Or private. I wondered how women prisoners at the Tanty fare.

The hours dragged by. I remembered I had not adequately been searched. I had two sets of lockpicks (not counting the last-resort one in the heel of my boot), a well-concealed gigli saw, and a needle file or two which in last resort could be used as daggers or throwing knives. This cheered me up and I set about learning as much as possible concerning what it is to be classed as "coloured" in Rimwards Howondaland.

Depressing. Especially as people passively accept this, and in the main think themselves lucky for not being born black.

And then a different officer, with escort, came to the cell door, maybe five hours after my arrival, and asked for me by name. In Morporkian.

"Miss Rivka ben-Devorah? Please come with me. You're no longer under arrest. On behalf of the government of Smith-Rhodesia, I have to apologise for your detention, and the fact you have been mistakenly treated as a coloured."

I pretended lack of understanding.

"Well, that only leaves two alternatives. Either you're demoting me down to black, or all of a sudden, I'm magically white. Funny, my skin's still the same shade it was when I arrived here."

The officer, who seemed like a decent fellow, reddened slightly.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes insisted. Err. Why don't you come with us? I stress you are no longer under arrest and charges have been dropped. But in the circumstances, if you'd care to accompany?"

I bade my cellmates farewell, and left, eager to find out how Mariella had forced a change in the situation. I wondered if it just might have something to do with her name.

* * *

"Sorry, Mariella. They got all my throwing knives, confiscated the lockpicks, and found the gigli saw in my collar lining." Horst said, loudly. He came to sit down next to me near the window.

"However, they missed the other gigli saw and the spare lockpicks hidden in my belt." he said, in a far lower voice.

I smiled. It occurred to me to wonder if I'd misjudged him slightly.

"Bootheels?" I asked.

"Ah-huh. And soles." he said. He tapped his fingers in a seemingly random way. I read _got blade in sole of boot_. I tapped back _Still wearing throwing knives. They haven't searched me yet._

Finger-sign is a marvelously adaptive thing. Horst signalled "I've been searched. You haven't." and left me to work it out.

After thoroughly checking to see if we were being observed – I thought not, they didn't seem that organized – I quickly passed him a set of my knives. He deftly strapped these to his forearm. Even if I was searched and my other weapons taken, we still had some available to us. I gave Horst Lensen another grudging mark for having worked this out before I did. Maybe he isn't completely stupid. Just misapplied and misdirected, as you once said about Lucinda Rust.

"Carry just enough for them to find. Ones you can afford to lose." he suggested. "If you have no weapons at all, even an officebound _dof_ like Waalmann might get suspicious."

Again, I had to concede, he was right. And he was _thinking_. I shook my head. A Lensen who was not a liability and in fact quite helpful?

He grinned.

"The good thing, one of the few good things, about being thought of as an idiot, is that people write you off and don't expect anything of you. So it's easy to confound their expectations. They're pleasantly surprised when you get things right."

I must have looked astonished. He smiled again.

"This isn't easy for me to explain." he said. Horst reached out and took both my hands. "And I'm not sure if I've got the words to explain. Talking about these things…" he paused for a few moments. I could sense his intensity and some sort of a struggle going on.

"It's difficult. You know? I always thought of myself as a bro. A lekker bro. And lekker bros don't talk about their feelings. But out there. I nearly died. Once when the Indians were torturing me. A second time when I staggered into that village in the jungle, and things got really sif."

He looked into my eyes. I didn't pull away.

"Mariella. You know they say when you're about to die, when you're _vreksemleit_ , your life passes in front of your eyes? Well, they're halfway right. When the Indians hung me to that post through the skewers they put in my chest. I was hanging there for days wishing I was dead. I saw things."

He took a deep gulping breath.

"I saw my life pass before my eyes. Like they say you do when you're dying. But I saw my life as other people saw me. Through their eyes. People at school. Rivka. Miss Band. Mr Mericet. _Your sister_."

He took another gulp.

"Gods know, she has no reason to like or think well of me. I regret that. And the guys I wanted to be in with and a part of. The in-set, the smart socially well-connected bros. I saw even _they_ thought I was a doosis. And you. And Trudie. And Susannah. And the others. Everyone thinking I was a complete bliksem. That _hurt_ , Mariella. Realising nobody had a good word to say or think about me and I either just didn't know or refused to accept that. Finding out seven years of your life were…."

He couldn't go on. I squeezed his hands reassuringly.

"And a voice saying _It doesn't have to carry on being this way. Your choice._ Like somebody showing me where I'd got it wrong, but without condemning me. That wasn't _everything_ I got while I was hanging there. But it was a big part."

He smiled, wanly.

"And when the old Indian woman, the _hechsen_ , let me go and I made it to the hospital in the jungle. Lots more dreams and thinking time there. And suddenly you and Rivka were there. I felt this was like nearly dying and being allowed to come back for another try. Maybe it can be different this time."

I couldn't think of what to say.

"Look, it's difficult and it's new and I'm still going to make mistakes and I'm still going to be a bloody idiot. But an idiot who nearly died and got to come back."

"Well. Knowing that and staring it in the face is a good start." I said. Then I added "Maybe I can start again too. _Jou bliksem_."

And then I spotted something white and familiar outside the window.

"Excuse me." I said, and let go his hands.

It was a Pegasus. Coming in to land in the courtyard and scattering soldiers on the parade ground. At the same time I heard somebody opening the door of our informal cell. I ignored them. The window opened easily. I reflected that there was no reason to lock it – we were several floors up and nobody knew we had been trained in edificeering. Not that we could, of course, Daylight and plenty of people out there patrolling with crossbows.

But I still leant out of the window and shrieked

"Olga! Up here! Mariella!"

I glimpsed Olga Romanoff looking up, to find where I was shouting from. Then hands were pulling me back from the window and demanding I got back into the room now. I sensed crossbows.

"Olga!" I shouted again. "We're prisoners!"

It was the absurd Liutnant Waalmann of the Customs Service and several guards.

I wrenched free, folded my arms and glared at him.

"You are not under arrest, meisie!" he said.

"Well, what is it, then?" I demanded. "And what have you done with Rivka?"

"In your case, we prefer to call it administrative detention." He said. "You are in protective custody, while we assess if you have broken any laws. Your associate, however, the coloured girl, _is_ under arrest. Possession of a banned substance with intent to smuggle it into this country for financial gain."

"Excuse me." Horst Lensen said, stepping forwards. He had regained a certain composure.

"According to the rules and regulations of the Racial Classification Acts and associated guidance notes, as issued to officers of the Bureau of State Security, I think you will find Miss ben-Devorah is legally classified as _white_. **(1)** Misassigning her to a detention facility for coloured people can be seen as negligient, and an offence for which she has the right under law to make a case for false imprisonment. As well as injury to reputation and distress."

Horst grinned at the little officer.

"And she's Cenotian. If it got out that a Cenotian citizen had been badly treated in this country there'd be a big diplomatic row, Liutnant Waalmann? Might be remembered when your promotion board comes around."

"And how do you know so much about BOSS and about racial classification law?" Waalmann demanded.

Horst grinned.

"I've just returned to my own country, to a _very_ warm welcome and a braii on the lawn and a celebratory beer, after being educated overseas for seven years." He said. "My duty here as a patriotic citizen is to report for my National Service. And I've already been offered a commission in the BOSS. Got to know people in Ankh-Morpork. Who know people higher up the ladder in _this_ country."

And here was the pineapple in the fruit basket. I'd almost forgotten Horst Lensen actively _wanted_ to sign up with BOSS, the secret police.

Waalmann stopped as if grasping the implications. I let him absorb the first bomb for a few moments, then added mine.

"Sir. Whether we're merely in administrative detention or under arrest, there is an accepted right that a person so detained can send a message out to a person of their choosing. So that somebody knows we're here and can arrange, for instance, legal representation on our behalf. It is an accepted right all over the Disc. For instance, the messenger on the winged horse outside belongs to the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. And _her_ boss, _Sir Samuel Vimes_ , would agree any prisoner in _his_ detention has that right."

"You have the clacks here." Horst said, backing me up. "I saw the tower when we arrived."

Waalmann folded.

"Prepare your messages. Fifty words only. I will see they are sent. You have my word."

"And an opportunity to speak to Officer Romanoff, the Pegasus pilot, would be appreciated." I said. "Sir Samuel Vimes appreciates it if his officers are not hindered in their duties. As does Lord Vetinari."

Waalmann and his men retreated. Horst and I whooped and slapped hands.

Then we composed our messages. Mine began "Uncle Charles" and briefly explained we were in Chirundu, S-R, in "administrative detention" under a Liutnant Waalmann, and some legal difficulties were happening to the three of us. Could he assist? Love, your niece, Mariella.

"Uncle Charles might have stood down as Interior Minister." I said. "But he'll have taken care to get a successor of his choosing in place. And Border Security reports to the Bureau of Interior Affairs."

Horst addressed his to the Guild bureau in Pratoria and apologized for reporting late. But he was being held up by Immigration in Chirundu and felt he had to go, uncomplainingly, with the laws of his own country. Could the Guild expedite?

And an office clerk came to retrieve our clacks messages for sending.

"What's the destination address, miss?" he asked.

I smiled.

"Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes. Jacarinthia House, Constantiaburg-Meadowridge, Caarp Town." I said.

The clerk took it down automatically, then his head jerked up in a double-take.

"Well, nobody asked my name when I came in." I said. "Smith-Rhodes, spelt S-M-I-T-H, hyphen, R-H-O-D-E-S…."

The clerk rushed out with our messages for urgent clacksing. I'm told Liutnant Waalmann had a panic attack.

This only left…

"Mariella?" said a pleasant voice in the room.

I looked round. Officer Kirstie.

"I had an intuition you needed assistance." she said. "Olga flew out here. She's currently downstairs being as imperious as only a Grand Ducal daughter can be, by the way. And A Grand Ducal daughter with Vetinari and Samuel Vimes behind her. I'm thinking two of you will soon be out of here."

"I'm grateful." Horst said. "Did I really see you in Smithville? I put a tiny woman who knew about healing down to a fevered dream."

Kirstie smiled.

"Glad I am to see ye well, Horst Lensen." she said. "I sensed a decent soul who needed to, perhaps, grow up a little. Dying and being reborn to life changes a man."

She looked at me, and then back to Lensen.

"You have a future, Horst. One possible direction is a good one indeed."

She looked at me again. It was a shrewd look.

"I counsel ye not to waste it."

I asked, quickly, what we could do about Rivka. I explained the situation. Kirstie is, after all, a Watchwoman. She smiled slightly.

"I think we can resolve things. It will be hard for them to find Rivka guilty if no evidence is there apart from hearsay. Brothers?"

Then three or four Feegle were in the room. They were told to go out, search, steal and retrieve. Namely an incriminating block of Klatchian bhong that needed to disappear.

"We move without being noticed when we need to." Kirstie said. "It was easy to find ye and get in here, for instance."

"Aye, Kelda." said Silent Bob. "We find this bhong stuff and we lose it again. Easy!"

"Mariella, would it inconvenience you if the orakh went missing too?" Kirstie asked. "They're good boys, but a little inducement would be welcome."

"Aye, lassie." said a Feegle. "Ye ken, Ginger-with-Freckles, we dinnae do drugs, see, Terrible things."

"Drugs is bad." agreed another Feegle.

"But a wee dram of yon orakh, now." Silent Bob said. The Feegle looked excited and intent. I agreed we wouldn't miss the orakh. It would have been confiscated anyway and this way somebody would benefit.

"No drinking it until we return. This I command." Kirstie said, firmly. "And we are to fly on to Pratoria. I am thinking Mistress Suki might appreciate a story for her publication. Concerning recent events on a river near here, I am thinking. His Lordship asked us to clarify a rumour he had heard, concerning the sinking of a ship. "

It gets better…

Well, a little later we were released from custody with an apology. All three of us. Apparently Uncle Charles sent an immediate reply to Waalmann trusting that we would not be detained for much longer and any little irregularities involving a family member and her travelling companions could be informally resolved. Also that he would be watching Waalmann's subsequent career with interest as he was evidently a man to watch and, he hopes, a man with a sterling career in Customs and Excise in front of him.

We will be staying in the best hotel in Chirundu. Where, apparently, news of our exploit has preceded us and the proprietor would not dream of asking for money. Our stay is on him, as befits heroines and a hero.

This journal will travel back to Ankh-Morpork with Olga. She is keen to spend an evening with Eddie first, apparently. A nice man and we don't begrudge her.

Well, we're home and will be debating where we go next. But a bath, a good dinner and soft beds beckon first. Apparently Olga has informed the Cenotian consul concerning Rivka and Diplomacy is happening. She is now Officially White, and has been issued papers confirming this, in the event of any misunderstandings.

Looking forward to travelling on in my homeland!

With love and great anticipation of seeing the family again

Mariella.

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** Wow, first (and only) footnote in this chapter. Really true. Jews had an ambivalent status in the old South Africa. Perhaps as a hangover from those parts of Afrikaaner society that considered South Africa was fighting on the wrong side in WW2, we should be thankful for the generous help Germany gave us during the Boer War against the bloody British, and this fellow Hitler has some good ideas about racial superiority and the honoured place of white Aryans at the top of the heap. And hey, if we Boers of good Dutch stock are not white Aryans, who is? Hence there was a certain level of anti-semitism in South Africa. Officially this changed with the undeclared alliance with Israel in the 1970's and 1980's. Israel made it abundantly clear that all Jews in South Africa were _white_ , no argument. Or this could strain our friendship. Thus any thought of their being merely _coloured_ was officially discouraged out of expediency. A similar alliance between Rimwards Howondaland and Cenotia would have similar overtones, I think.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Freudian slip; "** _ **Customs and Excise**_ **" came out on the page as "** _ **Customs and Excuse**_ **". Hmm. This has interesting humorous possibilities.**

 **The month of Spune: falls between August and Sektober in the Discworld calendar. The L-Space Wiki says this:** Spune has thirty-two days, and is a month of the Discword year roughly analogous to our late August and most of September. It is preceded by August and suceeded by Sektober. _The Celebrated Discworld Almanak_ notes it is the month of harvest, the time to gather scumble apples and press the crop, and a time to beware of moles, which are ubiquitous. Good Mole Shouters may always be found in rural areas. The sign of the Bright Cabbage governs the heavens. The Bright Cabbage is referenced in _The Celebrated Discworld Almanak_ and is a constellation in the Discworld sky, noted to govern the harvest and most visible in the month of Spune..

Worst swear in Japanese is apparently "manko", one whisper away from demotic British "manky". Apparently a street in Moscow, in Russian, is "Yakimanka", almost the Japanese for "roasted fanny".


	28. be now heroes!

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-eight: Home, if not dry**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave. Who, they are discovering, was no hindrance to having a winning hand.**_

 _ **At last, Rimwards Howondaland!**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _The offices of_ _ **De Burgher (en Het Volksblat),**_ _a newspaper serving as much of Rimwards Howondaland as it can reasonably reach. At 216 Vermeulen Straat, Pratoria, R.H._

Suki van der Graaf stared over the top of her coffee cup and looked out of the window over the Pratoria roofscape. She sighed. Slow news days were always _morne_. Dull, dull, dull. She reflected on the nature of newspapers, something adapted from the model set by the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_. Its blend of the exciting and Disc-significant front page news, with the more parochial local stuff filling the pages inside (as people loved to see their own names in print and would buy many copies **(1)** ) was widely imitated all over the Disc **.(2)**

Suki had no problems with the former and was very much temperamentally disposed towards digging out the big and the Disc-significant. But on slow days for big news, she had to do her share of the other stuff.

She sighed. Unless it picked up soon, she'd have to go out with an iconograph and report on a few births, weddings, funerals and minor court appearances. _Morne._ More dancing the dreaded _leeulope_ at wedding receptions.

She wondered about getting out of the office and nosing around in the political quarter. There had to be a scandal going on _somewhere_. It wouldn't be politics otherwise.

Things were too quiet, that was the problem. She wondered what her cousin Mariella was up to. She'd shown great promise of becoming another Johanna, what with that business in Cenotia a few months ago, but things had become depressingly quiet since. She sighed. Laotan and Smyrrit were not countries famed for being movers and shakers on the world stage. Not even Johanna could find too much trouble to stir up there. Ymitury only featured – and then as a paragraph or two on Page Nine - whenever the latest Pasha came to his inevitable end. And the Central Plains were a backwater.

Suki reflected that sooner or later they'd be travelling into Howondaland proper. Mariella Smith-Rhodes. Rivka ben-Devorah. Crossing hostile country populated by Zulus and Matabels. If a Smith-Rhodes couldn't get into a newsworthy fight _there_ , something was wrong in the world.

Suki looked over the shared office. It was populated by several other staff journalists all seeking to look busy on a slow day. Whatever Mariella and Rivka were doing in Howondaland, she hoped it would be big enough to justify her salary, and that she'd get to hear about it sooner rather than later.

And then she jumped, seeing the six-inch-tall woman standing on her desk, dressed in what looked like scaled down City Watch uniform.

"Mistress Suki, the wordsmith? Olga Romanoff bids ye good day. We may have a story for ye."

"I'm listening." Suki said, trying to shut out the conversation going on at floor level.

 _-These wordsmiths are bound to have some of the good stuff aboot the place. Aye. Show me a writer-of-news who does not drink!_

 _-You're right there, Moderately-Sized-Jock! There's nothing like a jour-na-leest for a seriously big drinkie!_

"Olga is talking to people at the Bureau of The Interior. She brings despatches from Ankh-Morpork and news of events in Smith-Rhodesia. She suggested that a small leak may be in order, and you are the person who should be leaked upon. She will attend as soon as she is able."

Suki stood up.

"Let's go somewhere private." she said, all her news-gathering senses beginning to twang. She didn't want anyone listening in and poaching her scoop **.(3)** At last, the day was brightening up.

* * *

 _ **On the same day. The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Olga Romanoff had landed directly in the courtyard of the Assassins' Guild at round about ten in the morning, Ankh-Morpork time. She really wanted to go home and go off shift for a few hours. She'd left Pratoria in Rimwards Howondaland at possibly two in the afternoon by local time. She reflected on the downside of being able to travel faster than the Disc moved. It could play serious havoc with your body clock. Besides, she had a cargo of Feegles, the escort to Not-A-Kelda Kirstie, who were restive because there were two flasks of Klatchian orakh in the pannier that they'd been promised, but forbidden to touch before they returned to the city. Kirstie had said she couldn't hold them back forever. Olga sighed. She was fairly sure that some strong spirits had also been liberated during their visit to the newspaper office. Journalists and strong drink went together, like a law of nature. Suki van der Graaf had said that if the Editor discovered anything missing from the drinks cabinet in his office, he'd be looking for somebody to blame, and she'd rather be somewhere else when that happened.

"How does Smith-Rhodesia sound?" Olga had asked.

Suki had squealed with delight, grabbed her ready-to-go travel bag, and left a scribbled note for her Editor saying roughly where she'd be and suggesting he held the front page. Olga had duly navigated a course that dropped her off in Chirundu, then instructed Kirstie to head for Ankh-Morpork.

And now, after nearly forty-eight hours and an overnight stop, she was on what she hoped would be her almost-the-last call before some downtime.

She ignored voices from the pannier containing several happy Feegle.

 _-This klip-drift stuff. Real firewater, laddie!_

 _-Aye, you are not wrong there! "Gold in every drop", it says here_ _ **.**_ **(4)**

 _-Aye,_ _ **and**_ _a bottle of yon_ **mam-power** _stuff intae the bargain!_

Olga sighed. She spoke to the lively pannier.

"Look. We're in the Assassins' Guild, if you haven't noticed. _Behave_ , will you?"

She nodded to the duty Assassin guard who was approaching respectfully.

"Communications for Doctor Smith-Rhodes, from Howondaland."

Olga indicated the bundle of Zulu weapons and shields tied to the opposite side of the pannier harness. **(5)**

"And trophies from her sister. While the letters I've got are mainly for Doctor Smith-Rhodes, there are things the Dark Council might need to know too. Any chance of a word with somebody, before I go on to the Palace?"

Five minutes later, she and Kirstie were in the Master's Office, giving a verbal report on recent events in Howondaland to Lord Downey, Miss Sanderson-Reeves, and to Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had hurriedly passed a lesson down the line to a teaching assistant to cover, until she got back.

Downey studied one of the captured Zulu assegais with interest.

"Three full sets, I see." he remarked. "And there might have been more, but according to the account, two more men trying to board the vessel fell into the water, and their equipment went with them. And possibly between seven and ten more who never even got to the boat, killed or wounded by crossbow fire. Remarkable!"

"Just footsoldiers, my lord." Johanna said, studying the captured shields and weapons. "Officers have more ornate head-dress, edditional distinctions such es the fly-switch, end cerry the _ikhlwa_ sword."

"Impressive, considering there were only three of our people fighting." Joan Sanderson-Reeves observed. "And by all accounts, Zulus are hard people to inhume. I'd not care for a fight with them!"

"Miss Smith-Rhodes, Miss ben-Devorah, and the Lensen boy." Downey remarked. "So they picked him up, then."

Olga felt she had to add a comment. "He fought well, Mariella said. Rivka confirms he didn't let them down and he got at least five Zulus in both fights. It must have been _his_ first proper stand-up fight too."

Johanna smiled slightly.

"Mr Lensen can shoot straight. He cen use a sword to the setisfection of Medeme Emmanuelle. I myself cen confirm thet he cen fight. It does not surprise me thet he ecquitted himself well in combat. I do not believe he would freeze up in a fight, end this news confirms my essessment of him. Lecking in other areas, certainly. But not these."

"At heart he is a good boy." Kirstie said, respectfully. "I realise you all sought to educate him for seven years, and may have found him difficult. But I sought to give him healing when he needed it. This allowed me time to read the man I saw. And all boys grow up. Ye might consider that in some cases, it takes a long time and many hard lessons. Ye will see him changed from what he was."

Johanna considered this and gave a short nod. Downey appreciated Kirstie's input and observed that nine or ten months of hard experience might indeed change a person for the better. Which is one thing the Extra Year option is intended to bring about.

"And then there was the business with the Zulu ship." Downey said. "Effectively a warship, of Klatchian design, crewed by possibly twenty-five men."

"And those two girls – and the dratted bloody boy – took it on, and they _sank_ the bally thing." Joan remarked. "Went down with nearly all hands. Not surprising, I suppose, as young Rivka started punching well above her weight from Day One. Never seen a gel so full of fight! Team her up with young Mariella, and things like this are _bound_ to happen."

"Inhuming a warship." Downey said, with pride. "I feel I should have this story related at Assembly. Granted, not a paid contract, so the Inhumation Bell cannot be sounded, but most definitely worthy of praise."

He smiled.

"Johanna, will you be reading extracts from the latest letters in the Staffroom? They do so much for morale!"

And later in the morning, Johanna Smith-Rhodes, having read the despatches and sorted out the public from the private, entertained her Staffroom colleagues with the latest news. There was widely expressed approval and satisfaction that two outstanding graduates had diligently assimilated and applied seven years' worth of Education, with such consistent reports. This kind of thing made it all worthwhile to teachers.

"Where's Ruth off to in a hurry?" Alice Band asked. Johanna frowned. Ruth N'Kweze was a Zulu. It occurred to her that two Zulu members of staff might have conflicting feelings about the impeccable application of Assassin trade skills. On Zulus. And Ruth had listened quietly to the account of the fighting with her people and the sinking of their ship on the River B'Ware. And had then rushed out.

"I'll speak to her later." Johanna said, feeling uneasy. Ruth was a close friend. Incredibly, she was almost Family in one interesting and necessarily discreet way. Ankh-Morpork did this to people.

And just before the bell rang for resumption of lessons, Heidi van Kruger discreetly tipped off Johanna that Ruth had asked a favour, that Heidi cover her eleven o'clock lesson at very short notice, as she'd had to rush off.

"Something's going on." Heidi said. Johanna agreed. Never mind, she'd find out later.

* * *

 _ **The Embassy of the Zulu Empire, Brookless Lane, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Prince Canaan N'Vectif Banana, the Zulu Ambassador, was in a tricky conference with people from the Klatchian Embassy. He'd demanded total privacy and freedom from interruption for the duration. He found the Klatchians to be difficult. Nominally allies and equals with the Empire, he found any discussions with their _friends and equals_ to be tinged with a Klatchian assumption of superiority, and that the Zulus were merely clients of Klatch, and their local agents to bring about Klatchian hegemony in the whole continent.

He sighed. But the Empire needed Klatch, if only as a counterbalance to Ankh-Morpork's sponsorship of the White Howondalandians to their Rimwards. And Klatch was a supplier of technologically superior weapons and manufactured goods. As the Klatchians were keen to remind them.

Prince Canaan thought of his personal friendship with Pieter van der Graaf, something that had developed out of adversity in a mutually foreign country. At least the fact Klatch stood alongside his nation, and Ankh-Morpork stood behind White Howondaland, was in its way a guarantee of some sort of uneasy peace. Neither superpower wanted to be drawn into an all-out war in Howondaland, even by proxy, and the foreign policy of both states was geared to averting this.

All-out war was unthinkable. He and Pieter agreed on this. But both also agreed, reluctantly, the price to be paid was the occasional border incident, usually on the long hostile frontier of Smith-Rhodesia. Which could, in one sense, be viewed as a very large military encampment that at any time absorbed a significant proportion of Rimwards Howondaland's military assets.

"At least it's a sort of safety valve for letting off a head of steam." Pieter had said, using a metaphor from the new Rail Ways. Apparently Rimwards Howondaland was hungry for the technology and was seeking Vetinari's consent to import it. "Better some people go up in pink mist now and again, in a controlled sort of way, than the whole bloody boiler explodes."

Canaan had agreed.

"And both our peoples get practice at fighting. Keeps the military happy, and lets them think they're useful."

And then the Chargé d'Affairs was at his shoulder, apologetic and deferential.

"Your Excellency. I understand you left strict instructions you were not to be disturbed in this conference. But the Paramount Crown Princess is here. She absolutely insists on speaking to you. Immediately and privately. She was most insistent."

Canaan frowned and felt angry for a second. Then he considered. His niece Ruth was a clever and capable girl. No. A young woman now. She was intelligent, practical, level-headed. Well. _Most_ of the time. And she was Assassin-trained and of good standing in the counsel of that Guild. The Guild gave people like Ruth, recognised as being in the inner circles of those who ran entire countries, a very thorough and in-depth training in political science. The formidable Lady T'Malia taught selected pupils to a _very_ high level of competence. Pupils trained by T'Malia had gone on to high diplomatic positions and political office. If Ruth wanted to speak to him without delay and in private, something was going on. And the Guild of Assassins had some amazingly good intelligence networks, second only to those of Patrician Vetinari.

"Will you excuse me, gentlemen?" Canaan asked the Klatchians.

"Of course, excellency." The Klatchian delegate said, smoothly. "The Paramount Crown Princess stands second only to the Great Paramount King himself. Of course you should attend to her wishes."

Prince Canaan found Ruth N'Kweze in his office. She looked agitated.

"I can spare you five minutes." He said, curtly. "What is so important?"

"You're talking to the Klatchians." Ruth said, avoiding social niceties. "I can make a guess. It's to do with some sort of press release to the _**Times**_ , isn't it, about publicly unveiling a new inshore fleet on Lake M'Boili, to challenge the White Howondalandians, who until now have insolently treated the waters as their own boating marina? To give them an unpleasant shock in that, because of generous assistance from our Klatchian allies, we now have at least the beginnings of a naval force with larger, better-weaponed and more powerful ships?"

The Ambassador took a deep and somewhat shocked breath.

"I'm not going to waste time denying that. And I won't ask how you found out. It's meant to be a top secret known only to a selected handful of trusted people. So _of course_ the Guild of Assassins gets to know about it. And I daresay Vetinari knows by now."

Ruth nodded.

"Doesn't he always?" she remarked.

"I'm told by secure message from my brother, _your father_ , that the flagship of the new fleet is even now on its maiden cruise on the Lake and the river system. It is to test its power by challenging a White Howondalandian vessel…"

" _Was_ on its maiden voyage." Ruth said. Her uncle excused the rudeness. He pulled up short. Ruth went on:

"It _did_ challenge another ship. It got _sunk,_ Uncle!"

The ambassador tailed off into appalled silence. Ruth pressed on.

"Whatever press release you had planned, uncle, you must call it back! Telling the _**Times**_ we have a mighty fleet today. Only for them to proclaim tomorrow that our mighty fleet was blown out of the water in its first engagement. Father is not going to like that! Not one little bit!"

Prince Canaan looked stunned and shocked. He knew his brother's temper. Today's Admiral was very likely to be tomorrow's lion-dung. And if his Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork compounded the embarrassment by releasing a proud announcement concerning the mighty new river fleet that was to challenge for mastery of the inland sea… whichever way this went, the Empire was going to be embarrassed. And all it needed now was for that wretched bloody van der Graaf woman, Pieter's daughter, like her father too clever by half, to write one of her lurid reports, of the sort that the world's newspapers would gleefully pick up…

"Tell me what you know, honoured niece. And I thank you." he said, resignedly. _Save what you can. Put a good spin on it. If you can._

Ten minutes later, the Ambassador was conferring with his Klatchian counterparts, who he privately noted were now a lot less smug, and agreeing that the Return of the Red Death was a mutually unsatisfactory situation. The Klatchians were to make an urgent report Home on the next and fastest carpet recommending that the price on the heads of two Assassins, known enemies of Klatch and deadly adversaries, be quadrupled at the very least. Price Canaan was to report on the new manifestation of the terrible and morale-threatening Red Death, and strongly recommend that a ceremonial assegai be prepared to receive her head, so it could be displayed in all kraals in the Empire.

"Good luck with that." his niece said, drily, noting that a second and older ceremonial assegai was, metaphorically speaking, rusting for lack of a red-haired head to impale on it. _What makes you think you can get the younger sister?_ hovered on the air, spill-words left unsaid.

* * *

 _ **Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia.**_

 _ **Spune, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben-Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Now after brief incarceration, a revised racial classification confirming her as being white, and release from custody without charge, she is (belatedly) a honoured guest in the province of Smith-Rhodesia. Her travelling companion is taking full and shameless advantage of even more special privileges Smith-Rhodesia confers upon her, following a similar shaky start._

Hi Johanna!

"Chirundu", apparently, derives from a term in a native language for "people following one another in a line or queue". This has always been a place where people can cross the mighty river safely, driven, I would surmise, by economic need. The Otto Beit Bridge is a marvel of civil engineering and was built as a prestige thing by the Rimwards Howondalandians, partly to make a statement that "our country is open, and people with no intent to cause trouble are welcome here **." (6)** Also to allow a reservoir of cheap labour to pass over from Urabewe, the only black Howondalandian state which is even remotely friendly to the whites. Hence the daily queue on the bridge as the black contract labour patiently lines up to be processed by customs and immigration. I hope the black people have a better time of it in entering this nation than we did!

The officious Liutnant Waalmann was very subdued when we left custody. An apology was perhaps too much to ask for, but I do understand Uncle Charles Smith-Rhodes was in touch to politely remind him which Family he was dealing with. I did find myself wondering how Mr Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes might have dealt with a petty official incarcerating his daughter. I have a feeling he would have been more _direct_ than Charles in expressing his concern.

Is a place like Chirundu the equivalent of the Klatchistanian frontier or the Apache border, a punishment station for those who have failed or given offence elsewhere? This might go some way to explaining Waalmann. We are in the Maniacaland Administrative District, by the way. Looking at people we encounter here, this seems most fitting.

Although I have to say that the officers and men at the Naval station here are very good, very competent. After we were allowed to leave and were able to check into the best local hotel – whose proprietor, by the way, is refusing to accept payment to heroes of a battle AND to a daughter of the Smith-Rhodes family – we had thoughts for the welfare of Mr Charley Walnut, the river captain who got is here from Urabewe. Are we allowed to say that he is now owed a favour from the Guild for his unstinting assistance to us, and if ever in need, he can ask for our help? He deserves it.

Anyway, we wanted to be sure that he was not getting the same unhelpful and obstructive reception as we did, and asked about him. Our host made enquiries, and directed us to the Naval yards on the river.

We were relieved and pleased to find that the _SS Howondalandian Queen_ is receiving a thorough refit and repairs, at the expense of the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy. The customs people did want to haul Captain Walnut off for interrogation, but were rudely told to _voetsaak, you're on our turf and this bro is our guest_ by the sailors. That pleased us. Captain Walnut has even been able to sell his cargo to local traders at a good price. He was happy to see us and pleased with his status as a honoured guest of the Navy.

We also met Liutnant-Kommander Blentsdorp, the naval officer in command of the _Klara Rijker_ , who indeed saw everything from his vessel and who was bloody furious about our detention. The three of us were at last able to give a full account of our travels and our encounters with the neighbours across the river. A full transcript of the interviews has now been clacksed down to the Bureau of Defence in Pratoria and to Naval High Command as a matter of some priority. We have asked for a copy to send back to the Guild as part of our report. Commander Blentsdorp and his superior Captain are only too happy to oblige.

Nothing is too much trouble for the heroines (and, to be scrupulously fair, a Hero) of the river engagement. Especially when one of them is a Smith-Rhodes.

Mariella can, perhaps, afford to be modest. It does seem that everywhere we go in this town she is a celebrity. People queue up to have iconographs taken with her, and it has been remarked that members of the Family who founded this state are surprisingly reticent about visiting there. It is the talk of the town. Outside occasional skirmishes with the enemy over the river, not a lot happens here, seemingly. We are in the furthest outpost of Rimwards Howondaland, the key strategic point where the river and lake system may easily be forded by a large army (travelling in either direction), and the aptly named Maniacaland has a long river border with the Zulu Empire.

(The Maniaca were, apparently, a small but fierce native tribe who fought practically to the last man against Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes' invading army. Their last remnant are apparently resentful still, after over a century; some fled to the kingdom of Matabeleland, others to the Zulu Empire. No doubt they, like any dispossessed people, want their territory back and will still feel this way after another century).

Chirundu is therefore a fortress town with a large Army garrison and a strong naval squadron. The thinking goes that command of the water is a guarantee against invasion – as any invading army out of the Zulu Empire would need to be landed, sustained and reinforced by water. Cut their supply and reinforcement routes behind them, and an invading army, even if it successfully crosses, will be made to wither. **(7)**

I can see it has come as an unpleasant shock to the Rimwards Howondalandian Navy that the Zulus are thinking in terms of better, bigger and more potently armed boats on their side. Losing naval superiority could well be the prelude to an invasion and this is, understandably, top priority to the sailors here; and another reason why they are so bloody furious that Customs officers kept us incommunicado for so long.

Over some not unpleasant refreshments in the wardroom, we discussed our battle with the naval officers, and sat in on a session of evolving counter-measures to enemy boats armed with Klatchian Fire Engines.

I said that one thing I'd observed from our boat had been the line of moored buoys that marked the border down the middle of the river. I wondered if the idea could be turned into an offensive weapon.

Captain de Noorde, the navy commander here, said to me to go on.

I said, diffidently, what if the buoys could be adapted to float on or just beneath the surface of the water, and were painted a dark colour so they were hard to see. Could they then contain an exothermic alchemy charge, and some means of ensuring they exploded when a vessel got close, this putting a hole in the hull?

The Captain then said that I had an inventively nasty mind. And that he was impressed. The difficulty he could see was in devising a suitable means of such a device reliably exploding when an enemy ship passed close to it, maybe nudged it in the water as it passed.

Another officer said we'd need to know where we put them, or our own ships might get sunk, which is embarrassing. And what if an innocent river user ran his boat into one?

What, like those Zulu fishing skiffs that get too near our side of the river, as if they're scouting out likely landing sites? said somebody else.

A good place to moor these explosive buoys, somebody else said. Like pointing out, very emphatically, that this side of the river is _mine_.

We talked exothermic alchemy for a while. How to create a charge you could attach to a very large siege crossbow, like the ones prominently attached to vessels like the _Klara Rijker_. Are those standard fittings on all your ships?

 _Ja,_ said Captain de Noorde proudly. All inshore patrol boats of the _Vredenburg_ **(8)** class carry them as standard. One fore, one aft.

Mariella suggested upgrading some to repeating crossbows. And perhaps some sort of shielding for the gunners? Currently they're horribly exposed out there on deck. If attacking one of your vessels, I would have men target the crossbow mountings. Lots of crossbows putting down fire. Denying you your own offensive weaponry. Simple metal armour plate to crouch behind would be a defence. Perhaps faced with wood and oxhide, to absorb any blast from a flamethrower. Covered with some sort of flame-resistant pitch or tar.

I can see you're thinking about this, the Captain said, approvingly.

Conversation turned to National Service and how Mariella and Horst intend to spend their two years, if they are offered a choice. Mariella says she isn't sure. She hopes after basic officer training to go to an infantry unit. She realises that women are officially debarred from front-line service, but she thinks there is always going to be a way around things like this.

"Have you thought of trying the Navy?" the captain suggested. "We take women officers too. And after what you helped do – you would be welcomed in."

Mariella said she would consider this.

Horst just looked uncomfortable.

The Captain jovially pressed him.

"Well. To be honest, sir. I was offered a commission in BOSS."

It's not as if everybody in the room edged away from him as if from somebody who had just farted in public. But there was a sudden chillier edge. Nobody likes to be near a secret policeman.

Horst Lensen grinned, ruefully.

"But I am no longer certain I _want_ to join the Bureau of State Security."

He laughed, with a bitter edge.

"For several years now, graduating from the Assassins' School and then joining BOSS to give selfless service to our country seemed like the greatest ideals to work for." he said. "Then, perhaps, I grew up a little. I want to decline their offer now. But I'm not sure if they'll let me."

"What brought about this change of heart?" the Captain asked, probing gently.

"I grew up? I nearly died and was nursed back to health? Perhaps I no longer want to gain the respect of people by making them fear me. They would give me a grudging respect, I think. But they'd also despise me. I had enough of that at school."

He paused, and added

"I don't want to be a part of that any more. But I'm still uncertain as to what I _do_ want."

There was a pause and the atmosphere seemed to be less chilly. The Captain offered a handshake.

"Ag, we all make mistakes." he said. "Judging from what you did on the river, you might want to think about the Navy. It gets cold and wet and you might get seasick, but it's a lot cleaner than BOSS."

The Bureau of State Security, I gather, is not universally liked by your people. Oh, I looked at Mariella. She was regarding Horst Lensen thoughtfully as if he'd ceased to be totally despicable and she was now rating him as "stupid but redeemable."

And when we eventually got back to our hotel after Navy hospitality, Suki van der Graaf was waiting for us. Apparently Olga had flown her in by Pegasus. She hadn't been able to stay and had flown on to Ankh-Morpork – something about a cargo of Feegle and some stolen alcohol they were longing to drink. But Suki embraced us warmly, said she'd heard about our activities, tell me all about it, and _what a story!_

We told her everything including the whole of Horst's adventures. I know the Guild is keen to avoid bad publicity. But Suki's slant will be sympathetic – that the Guild recognised it had to get Horst out of captivity, and at considerable expense and time had despatched a rescue mission. Suki will emphasise that compatriot Mariella Smith-Rhodes planned and led the daring rescue, for which the Guild spared no expense, recognising the imperative need not to leave one of its own behind.

"Yes." I said. "No expense spared. Four thousand dollars' worth of no expense spared."

Look upon this as good publicity?

Suki is also writing up the story of our river exploit. She thinks this will go international even if BOSS censor it from domestic circulation. I have a suspicion Lord Vetinari will welcome further exquisite embarrassment for the Klatchians and that this will also be good press coverage for the Guild.

We have been offered dinner with the Army commander and his wife. This Kolonel van der Byl is apparently related to you, albeit distantly, by marriage? Mariella says the family think of him as a socially-climbing reptile who saw a chance to get on by marrying a Smith-Rhodes, and that your Uncle Charles saw he got informally exiled to a remote posting to get him out of the way. Well, we'll see!

With love

Rivka

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

Again, too long and needing to be continued in a new chapter….

 **(1)** Except if it involved court appearances for embarrassing offences. But then, _other people_ would buy the papers, so as to bring out the incriminating clipping whenever the offender needed to be reminded, or if they wanted a laugh on a grey day.

 **(2)** At least, by those states and nations that permitted a Free Press and whose leaders were not intimidated or worried by the notion.

 **(3)** And certainly not Sub-Editor van Kloop, who wore civilian clothes to work and was nominally an employee of _**De Burgher**_. But everyone knew he was from BOSS and his job was to review all copy submitted for publication, and to helpfully suggest judicious editing where it was called for. You know, to help the flow and style of the writing. Suki and her colleagues accepted this and worked around him where they could.

 **(4)** As noted at the end of a previous chapter, "Klipdrift" is a South African brandy with a "lunatic soup" reputation, and associated by stand-up comedians, such as Casper de Vries and Barry Hilton, with alcoholism and the less discerning drinker. De Vries performs in Afrikaans, but does some pretty international visual humour. Barry Hilton performs stand-up mainly in English and is very funny indeed. South African comedy is more than just Trevor Noah.

 **(5)** to be fitted to a very unique horse indeed, the design of the harness and traces had given a skilled maker of equestrian leatherwork something of a big practical problem to resolve. How to fit saddle and tack around very large wings that horses did not, as a general rule, normally possess.

 **(6)** Taken from the Wikipedia article on the real-world manifestation of Chirundu, the northenmost border town in what was Rhodesia and is now Zimbabwe. _Manicaland_ is a province of Rhodesia/Zimbabwe. I know. Not the one Chirundu is actually in – that's Mashonaland West in the real world – but hey. Rule Of Funny, with a name like that.

 **(7)** This was the thinking behind any successful British opposition to a German invasion out of conquered France in 1940. It wasn't crucial that the Army was weak and demoralised after defeat in France and Norway. It had to be just strong enough to hold any German invasion whilst the Royal Navy and Royal Air Force hammered the resupply lines across the English Channel and starved the Germans of resupply and fuel. Most analyses of whether Operation Sealion could have successfully been repulsed agree that this was the only viable British strategy and stood a good chance of working. In the event, the aerial part of the strategy worked – as we now know, the Luftwaffe fought hard but failed to achieve air superiority over the south of England and the Channel. The rest of the strategy was never tested as the Germans thought twice about invading.

 **(8)** Just discovered one ship of the Vredenburg class (light patrol boats) was called HMSAS, later just SAS, _**Johanna van der Merwe**_ , and patrolled the Zambezi River, which is interesting. Apparently – and I didn't know this when naming the _**Klara Rijker**_ – they were all named after South African women. After the change of management in 1994, SAS _**Johanna van der Merwe**_ was renamed _ **SAS Assegai.**_ Other ships in the flotilla included _ **SAS Emily Hobhouse, SAS Maria van Rieebeck**_ , et c. Emily Hobhouse is an interesting person: British born and a Florence Nightingale character who used force of personality to get into a position of influence in the colonial administration during the Boer War. She fought and agitated for the rights and decent treatment of Boer women and children incarcerated in the infamous concentration camps during the war, and frequently embarrassed the administration by getting world publicity out concerning British administration of the detention camps. She is regarded as a national heroine and as an Afrikaaner who had the bad luck to be born British. **Johanna Cornelia van der Merwe** is... wow. As near to a real-life Johanna Smith-Rhodes as you could hope to get. And I swear I had no idea she existed in real life. Life belatedly imitating art! **  
**

**Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **South African newspapers, addresses for mashing into the tale**

 _Het Volksblad_

79 Nelson Mandela Drive (can't have been called this pre-1994?)  
City Centre  
Bloemfontein  
9301

Pre-1994, the street is likely to have been named after the sort of national hero who abruptly went out of fashion: Heinrik Verwoed or somebody of that ilk.

 _Pretoria News_

216 Vermeulen Street  
Pretoria

Gauteng

 **Microsoft Word also appears to have introduced an element of predictive texting, where if I slightly mis-spell a word, the system obliges me by correcting it into what it thinks I meant. This is another ongoing hazard I have to watch for and correct. Especially with so many Discworld-themed names and words which tend to fritz the system. Did Terry Pratchett have this problem with his computer?**


	29. A social braai on the lawn

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Day of Reckoning is here**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave. Who, they are discovering, was no hindrance to having a winning hand.**_

 _ **At last, Rimwards Howondaland! Well – Maniacaland, Smith-Rhodesia.**_

 _ **From Traffic Stats – I've got readers in Peru, Bolivia and Venuzuela? Blimey. Or even ¡Caramba!**_

 _ **¡Hola!**_ Bienvenido a mis historias. ¡Espero que les gusten!

 _ **Now read on…. a long one this time. Could have been much longer!  
**_

 _ **The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Lord Vetinari silently regarded the group of employees in front of the desk, in one case actually standing _on_ the desk, who had been called to give account of themselves. Sir Samuel Vimes stood off to one side and fumed silently. Rufus Drumknott stood on the other side of the Patrician, standing attentively with a bundle of files and reports to be brought out at need.

"The invited people are waiting in the ante-room, sir." Drumknott said, respectfully.

Vetinari smiled slightly.

"I take it the clock has been wound and is operating satisfactorily?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. The mechanism has been adjusted slightly and the feedback devices overhauled. The clock indeed ticks." Drumknott confirmed.

"Capital. Allow them, say, ten more minutes to reflect and to prepare their cases."

Vetinari turned to Olga Romanoff. She stood to attention with her Watch flying helmet under her arm. It had a certain pointy quality, as befitted her status of Witch Police Constable. The flying goggles advertised her position as an Air Watch and Pegasus Service pilot.

"Howondaland appears to be a frequent destination for you lately." Vetinari remarked, with seeming affability.

"Sir." Olga said. It was safest.

"And for good reasons. The reports you brought back concerning recent activity on the River B'Ware were most enlightening. Thank you. I note the two young ladies have been active again."

He smiled, thinly.

"As the rest of the world will soon know, since you diverted to speak to the writer of words, Miss van der Graaf. Who is currently in this place called Chirundu, clacksing her latest story out to the world. Space has indeed been cleared on the front page of the Times for the latest despatch from _Our Correspondent in Rimwards Howondaland_."

Vetinari looked at Olga in a questioning and above all silent way. She held his gaze for a few seconds.

"It was policy to get her to Cenotia quickly for her to report on a story there, sir. We _are_ allowed to make intelligent local judgements as to what is most appropriate for the situation, after all. And I was on the way to Pratoria anyway. With even more urgency after hearing about events on the River. Rimwards Howondaland is an ally, after all, and the standing order is to make ourselves amenable to reasonable requests made by most favoured allies."

Vetinari nodded.

"And, incidentally, to facilitate a family reunion." he said, drily. "I'm sure Miss Smith-Rhodes and Miss van der Graaf would have had a lot to talk about at their meeting. Much of which is poised to be shared with the world's press. Starting, I believe, with the evening edition of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_."

"Sir." said Olga.

"A news story which will embarrass the Klatchians _and_ the Zulu Empire. Which will cast them in the role of aggressors who received a well-deserved chastisement. _And_ set back any attempt to create a marine force that will inevitably challenge for mastery of the river system and inland sea, thus destabilising a local situation and making a major war more likely."

"Sir." said Olga.

Vetinari frowned.

"Done without my express consent, knowledge or indeed approval. But completely in keeping with my thoughts on this issue."

Vetinari shook his head.

"I don't know, Officer Romanoff. I understand you're happy to remain a constable, you find great fulfilment in the job you do, and in any case, you have a degree of financial independence and a Watch constable's salary is perfectly adequate for your needs. I _may_ be forced to express my displeasure at hearing you anticipated my thoughts, and took independent action of your own in the name of Ankh-Morpork, by issuing severe sanction."

He turned to Vimes.

"Is it sufficient censure to advance Officer Romanoff to the rank of Sergeant, do you think? I understand no Watch officer can be punished by advancement from constable to, say, Lieutenant, all in one single leap."

"The Air Police and the Pegasus Service are expanding, sir, certainly." Vimes said. "It should be commanded by a commissioned officer. And we resurrected Inspector's rank for Pessimal. Lower than a Captain but the next jump up from Sergeant. Carrot tells me there is the currently defunct rank of police lieutenant. Might be useful to revive it for the officer commanding the Pegasus Service, to mark it as being distinct."

"But the short step to Sergeant in the meantime? Capital."

Vimes turned and scowled slightly at Olga.

"And let that be a lesson to you, Sergeant Romanoff." he said, sternly. "See where this bad habit of thinking for yourself and making intelligent decisions leads you? I don't know, you foul up again, and you'll be a Lieutenant, or something. That gets you punishment fatigues, like having to attend Watch senior officers' conferences."

He paused.

"And Irena's going to be pissed off with you as well, because if you make the grade as Sergeant and then get promoted on to Lieutenant, it opens up a sergeant vacancy. I'd be forced to give that to Irena on the grounds of ability and seniority. And I know she's been pretty determined to avoid being promoted, every bit as much as you were. What were her words again? _Frankly it isn't worth the hassle for a few extra dollars a month_."

Vimes grinned.

"Looks like you haven't got a choice any more."

"And giving the two senior pilots of the Pegasus Service enhanced rank will be noted by the people overseas who they deal with on behalf of the City." Vetinari remarked. "Who act on my behalf and - usually – on my instructions. Which is for the good."

Olga stood back, feeling relieved, noting she'd been both warned and promoted at the same time. So like Vetinari.

"The other thing, sir." Vimes prompted.

"Oh yes. Proceed, Sir Samuel."

Vimes turned to the so far silent and disregarded other person in the office. She was standing to attention on Vetinari's desk, placidly observing proceedings.

"Officer Kirstie. Your report on events in this Chirundu place was informative and interesting. You pointed out the sloppy standards and gaping holes in standard procedure used by the customs officers in this _Smith-Rhodesia_ place, leading to the detention of three people without observing the standard formalities. Seems like they need a bit of a reminder about how to make a bust."

"Aye, Mr Vimes. They were so excited to have caught a trio of desperate and hardened drug-smugglers, that they neglected the most basic things, such as ascertaining the names, identities and nationalities of their arrestees. It appeared that they'd catch up with those petty details later after checking their possessions for things attracting censure, or just large fines and duties."

"And when they realised, rather belatedly, they were inconveniencing members of the Guild of Assassins who were on a formal contracted mission. _And_ that one of them was called Smith-Rhodes. They ran into headaches." Vimes remarked. He shook his head. "Normally anyone I nicked, who even _hinted_ that their family connections could get them off all charges, would end up in the worst cell I've got with a flea in their ear. But I can't help thinking that this berk in Smith-Rhodesia brought it on his own head. Lots of it and from a very great height. One thing puzzles me, though. Surely they'd have taken care to safeguard the evidence. Get it bagged, tagged and in the evidence locker straight away. Any bugger I caught here with a lump of bhong resin as big as my clenched fist – well, the first thing you do is get the bloody stuff in secure custody. It's _basic_ , for goodness sake. But when the crunch came, they discovered they'd _lost_ the bloody stuff, and without the evidence, they had to let that lethal weapon of a girl walk. They can't be that sloppy, could they?"

Kirstie shrugged.

"Evidence can be mislaid, sir. And no force is without its corrupt personnel. Is it the case that they may, perhaps, have a bent copper who saw an opportunity? You are not kind in your assessment of routine policing in Rimwards Howondaland. And it is sometimes the case, sir, that an unwitting person about to cross a border discovers contraband such as drugs have been planted in their luggage without their knowledge or consent." Kirstie remarked. "Miss ben-Devorah was travelling out of Klatch, after all."

Vimes looked down at her in a suspicious way.

"You can't rule it out, Kirstie. But earlier today, Sergeant Detritus came to me in a state of perplexity. He informed me he'd done a routine inventory of Class-S drugs stored in Evidence Locker Number Many-Lots. You know, the troll drugs we impound and keep, pending destruction. Just as soon as the bloody alchemists figure out a _safe_ way of destroying them. He said there was a lump of strange-smelling brown human stuff in there, could I take a look? When I worked out it wasn't the obvious strange-smelling brown human stuff, put there by somebody with a warped sense of humour, I checked it out, and what do you know? It was a lump of bhong resin as big as my clenched fist. Which had suddenly and mysteriously appeared there without any explanation. And Detritus isn't all that up to speed on _human_ drugs. He doesn't usually deal with them."

"Just as well, sir." Kirstie said, brightly. "A dangerous drug is now in _exactly_ the right place, in secure police custody, awaiting safe destruction. And the person who formerly owned it is deprived of the opportunity either to use it or to sell it on for gain. This is for the best, don't you think, sir?"

Vimes looked suspiciously at his Not-a-Kelda constable.

Vetinari intervened.

"The crucial thing is that Miss ben-Devorah is now a free woman. And her actions have been of great worth to both the City and her Guild, and will no doubt continue to be so. And I understand, Sir Samuel, she is in your informal category of _"Assassins I do not dislike as much as others, but don't mistake this for my actually liking the sods"._

Vimes sighed. There were Assassins he almost liked – well, felt less hostile towards. And Rivka ben-Devorah, lethal weapon and fizzing little keg of black powder that she undoubtedly was, had become one on the first night he'd met her **.(1)** Any thirteen year old girl who had just taken down a bad guy who'd managed to evade the Watch for six months was, well, somebody to take notice of. And, damn it, he liked Mariella Smith-Rhodes too. Less of a temper on her than her older sister, for one thing. But no less dangerous in a fight. As a lot of people across Klatch and Howondaland, the ones who'd survived to tell the tale, now had cause to know.

He took a deep breath.

"Okay, Kirstie. We'll put it down to sloppy procedure and bad policing at their end, shall we? _This_ time. I didn't train any of them, for one thing."

Rufus Drumknott cleared his throat, diffidently.

"Shall I call our guests in, sir? For the important discussion."

"Please do, Drumknott. I need to ask the Klatchian and Zulu ambassadors some urgent questions. Sergeant Romanoff, please remain. Officer Kirstie, could you conceal yourself and listen attentively? Your considered reflections and assessments later would be interesting."

He paused, and added:

"I would be pleased if your informal escort were to depart and find something else to do. Somewhere else. Do not let me detain you, gentlemen. Your Kelda is perfectly safe here. I should imagine the routine security measures around me are adequate for her, and it _really_ doesn't need _you_."

He looked up again and frowned.

"And as you depart with all due speed, _do_ leave any bottles of wine or small interesting things you may have found, _exactly_ where and as you found them, if you'd be so kind. And give Drumknott his pencil back. Thank you _so_ much."

* * *

 _ **Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia.**_

 _ **Spune, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben-Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Now after brief incarceration, a revised racial classification confirming her as being white, and release from custody without charge, she is (belatedly) a honoured guest in the province of Smith-Rhodesia. Her travelling companion is taking full and shameless advantage of even more special privileges Smith-Rhodesia confers upon her, following a similar shaky start._

Hi Johanna!

We were invited to informal dinner with the Army commander and his wife. This Kolonel van der Byl is apparently related to you, albeit distantly, by marriage? Mariella says the family think of him as a complete _gogga._ (a generic word for a slimy insect or small reptile? I notice that even in her most sulphurous moments in which I have learnt many interesting _Vondalaans_ terms, she has never used this word for Horst Lensen, even _once_ , so this must be a different category of _draadtrekker bliksem_ ). Neither he nor his unfortunate wife could be persuaded or threatened out of marriage, so like it or not, he is part of the wide extended Smith-Rhodes clan. Mariella suspects that Uncle Charles saw he got informally exiled to a series of remote postings to get him out of the way, and placed him where he could cause least embarrassment or damage.

Therefore his promotion to _Kolonel_ and nominal command of a large part of the Chirundu garrison was an unpleasant surprise to many people. There is a Brigadier-General commanding the Maniacaland Military District, but the general opinion of the soldiers and sailors we spoke to is that he's ineffectual and pretty much _afwyking_ and _besetenheid._ I believe I can work those words out in context. I also learnt that _verkramp_ , or _verkrampt_ , with a small "v", is also a term for a particular frame of mind **.(2)** I wonder if this is an eponym derived from the Verkramp family, or if they were born with an unfortunate name and decided at some level to live up to it?

Anyway, it was an "informal dinner" which Mariella described as a _braai en slaai._ I believe I understand her. A _braai_ is a barbecue at which there is lots of cooked and often processed meat. _Slaai_ is the accompanying salad served by people who are trying to eat healthily, or else trying to give the _braai_ a degree of sophistication. The salad is optional, she said, and you don't _have_ to eat it. Just put a little on your plate to show willing.

Ah well. _Nou gaan ons braii_ , as they say **. (3)**

With love

Rivka

* * *

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), in Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia. Now discovering she is something of a celebrity locally for various reasons, not the least of which is her name and the cachet it confers in this unique place._

Hi Johanna!

Well, I'm now a Smith-Rhodes in Smith-Rhodesia. This has not gone unremarked. A typical conversation might at some point involve my saying, as modestly and in as " _this-is-really-no-big-deal_ " a way as I can

"Yes, I _am_ the great-grand-daughter of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes."

At least it makes a change from having to say

"Yes, I _am_ the younger sister of the renowned Assassin and adventurer and heroine Doctor Johanna Famke Smith-Rhodes. Who is _also_ a great-grand-daughter of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes."

There is a statue of Sir Cecil in the main square in Chirundu. It is modestly life-sized, all the good burghers of this settlement were able to afford, and it stands in the main square in the town. It marks the historic moment where our great ancestor paused on the banks of the B'Ware river, looked across to Urabewe, and said "No further. I'm afraid we should stop here, gentlemen, and consolidate."

Apparently he also said "If _we_ could cross the river here and push on, then _they_ can as well and push us back. Better build a fortress here to control the crossing points. See about getting patrol boats out there to police the water, too."

According to legend, Sir Cecil then turned to one of his lieutenants on the mad colonial exercise.

"Otto, you're an engineer and an architect. Can we build some sort of bridge here, do you think? Have a fortified customs post at our end to control who passes through, naturally. But we're going to need to trade with these people. The friendly ones, obviously."

And Otto Beit said given the resources it could be done, yes. A grand gesture to say we're here to stay. Something for the natives to marvel at.

I enclose iconographs Rivka took of me and the statue. I climbed the plinth and posed with our ancestor, him in bronze and spattered with the obligatory bird droppings. There is apparently a family resemblance. See what you think.

Amusingly, a passing policeman who had not been briefed threatened to arrest me for climbing on the great Sir Cecil's statue. Don't you know he's a revered national hero and Founder of our land? Who was I to take liberties like that?

"Go on, Mariella." Rivka said. "Tell him."

I know I shouldn't. But I did. It was worth it to see the expression on his face. He conceded that I was, perhaps, a person who _could_ take such liberties.

I gave my great-grandfather a dutiful and respectful kiss on the cheek, which Rivka iconographed, and climbed down. Cousin Suki asked for a copy as a "human interest" thing. I shudder to think of where it will end up.

Speaking of Cousin Suki, she arrived here via Pegasus much as she did in Cenotia. Is Uncle Havelock contriving this? She has been collecting accounts and making regular long clacks reports back to Pratoria. She is _also_ writing a different story for the times and I am  sure another unscheduled Pegasus will arrive here on schedule to collect it, and deliver her uncensored copy to Mr de Worde and Ms Cripslock. Along with iconographs. Ah well. We'll see, when the Pratoria papers finally arrive here, several days after publication.

The Clacks is fairly new here and Chirundu was one of the first places to be made live on the network for military purposes, as this place has strategic importance. People are extremely proud of their Clacks. Civil clacksing is permitted, however, although you may be sure there is a BOSS office tied into the line and monitoring all messages. Rimwards Howondaland is at present the only nation at this end of the continent to have the Clacks. (There is a limited network in Klatch, but this is government controlled and subject to very rigid control).

Perhaps we should invest in the consortium planning to get the Clacks running across the whole continent, Johanna? It would pay for itself many times over, and besides, Sir Cecil had a dream of some sort of system connecting the whole length of the Howondalandian continent from the Circle Sea to Caarp Town. **(4)** It would be entirely in keeping with our family tradition, and besides, you were in a position to invest twenty thousand in the Rimwards Howondaland Grand Trunk consortium. A drop in the ocean compared to the vast sum Uncle Charles put into the project, but even in the first couple of years, the dividends for you and Ponder were substantial and it promises to pay more. Adorah Belle Dearheart is a very shrewd and capable woman and I would happily place, say, ten thousand in her enterprise, should she make this decision. By the way, thank you for communicating to me that the Guild is repaying my expenses in the matter of Horst Lensen. I have not told him this; I want him to carry on wincing whenever the matter of the four thousand he notionally owes me is raised. Having so far earned six thousand or so in Guild contract fees in my travels, on top of money already in my bank accounts, I do consider it's time to consider good investments that will recoup an ongoing income on capital invested. I will discuss this with Mother and Father when I arrive; Father was of course delighted with the ideas you proposed to him and has seen a large sum added to augment what he calls his "retirement fund" from his investments. But can you really see Father retiring? From anything? (And aren't I a big grown-up girl now, she says, ruefully. Considering investment income, at the age of nineteen).

Speaking of Horst, we were invited to a braai at the home of the Military Commander. In some respects this was a dire social obligation, although we met the cream of civil, political and military society in Maniacaland. Or, in the case of our distant cousin-by-marriage, Pieter Fleming Volteyn van der Bly, that which rises to the top, and which may be mistaken for cream.

Our party of four people consisted of myself, Rivka, Horst Lensen and Cousin Suki, (although I am fairly sure she wasn't invited, she ignored this and came along _anyway_ , pointing out she is daughter of a prestigiously appointed and well-thought-of Ambassador, and as such is informally trained to mingle in these circles. I don't doubt her: she is Aunt Friejda's somewhat wayward older daughter and can imitate her mother's mannerisms wonderfully.)

By the way, there is a Cenotian tailor in Chirundu. Rivka established contact with him, drawn as if by some unerring magic. As we are travelling light, she explained our need and the tailor measured all three of us and ran up formal clothing in Assassin black to advertise our status. I had to pay, of course, but it meant we would look the part at the formal reception. It was a good idea on her part! (And it looked strikingly good. Assassins are not seen here, but everyone knew what stylish well-tailored black, with weapons, means.)

I also pointed out to Rivka that she ought to forget about considering the seasons consist of spring, summer, autumn and winter. Here in Howondaland there are only two: Dry and Wet.

And we arrived just as what we on the Veldt think of as Early Wet was settling in, a jungle monsoon this far Hubwards, which while severe for a week or so soon peters out, and we get a few weeks or months of relative dryness before the big Wet Season arrives around November. **(5)**

Consequently, the weather was intermittent rain with dry spells. The Military Commander's large and well-appointed mansion was therefore set out for a garden party, with marquees erected as rain insurance, and several braai fires established at various points.

My distant cousin-by-marriage, Kolonel Pieter Fleming Volteyn van der Bly **(6),** is an utterly horrendous oaf with no redeeming qualities whatever. He is the sort of man I suspected Horst might grow into. A zef bro with education and in a place of power. Not a good thing.

Powerfully built, florid, with what is referred to as "a good head of hair", an air of unshakeable confidence and belief in his own abilities, loud, overbearing, patronizing, putting down to his own ability those things which, were he to examine them objectively (which he of course won't) arose from his marrying into the Smith-Rhodes family.

The woman formerly known as Marguerite Smith-Rhodes who made the error of marrying him appears to twitch a lot, as with some nervous tic. I have never met her before, and it appears she is a very distant cousin. But she has convinced herself that she loves and admires the oaf, and expressed the opinion that her cousin Charles shouldn't fuss so much. She knows what she is doing. I reflected that Lady Rust twitches a lot in a similar way (marriage to Ronald and being mother of Gravid (deceased) Charles (presumed deceased) **(7),** Regina, Augusta, Lucinda (exiled) and Deborah (all-round idiot) can't have raised her self-esteem).

We talked family. She was politely interested in our more socially unfavoured Kerrigian Boor branch of the clan, agreed that Father is a real character, asked about the famous Johanna, passed over Andreas and Agnetha (the boring ones who eschewed a life of adventure to be sensible, settle down, and raise families), asked how Danie is getting on in Ankh-Morpork, and finally said she'd been really interested to see my name in the papers. Perhaps I wasn't aware of it, she remarked, but I'm something of a sensation after the Cenotian episode.

I noted that a civilian guest was a man claiming to be from the Cenotian trade delegation. I recognized him: a gentleman we knew as Gideon, who we'd last encountered in the aftermath of the Klatchian raid in the Golem Heights. He was talking to her at great length and was most attentive. Hmm. Both were, of course, politely declining pork-based meats and the _less fins-and-scales and more too-many-legs_ kinds of marine food being offered.

What can you say? A braai is always a fun event and something in our genes always responds positively to an invitation to _nou gaan ons braai._

And while some of the guests were dreary, dull, pompous, inflated with their own importance or else distant cousin-by-marriage Pieter Fleming Volteyn van der Bly, there were actually some interesting people there, ones with practical ability and a far better sense of reality.

And, as the celebrity in town, I felt like Guest of Honour, the heroine of the day who had, according to the papers, single-handedly beaten off a Klatchian invasion into Cenotia, humbled the arrogant beturbaned _bliksems_ and _draadtrekkers_ , and capped all that by winning a running series of battles with the verdammte Zulus _and_ being the girl who sank one of their fighting ships on the river.

 _And_ I was also from one of the two principal branches of the Smith-Rhodes family (albeit not the socially influential one), and, er, when you meet Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes, could you, er, mention me to him? Mr Martin van Kuiperstein, he might remember me from such-and-such an event, I've been an Assistant Under-Secretary in the Interior Bureau and posted out here for ten years now (translated: I'm overdue a promotion and a transfer to somewhere like Bloemfontein or Pratoria, can you swing it for me?)

It seems half the government administration posted out here is eager for a posting to somewhere less bucolic and upcountry, or a promotion and re-assignment back to Pratoria away from the hicks. They seem to think I have the ear of Uncle Charles and fondly hope I can drop favorable words into said ear.

I'm sure he'll ask me for my impressions of this place. I'm not sure of how to phrase it. But when it happens… possibly the overwhelming sensation of being in a fortress town, with a siege mentality, where a lot of inhabitants dread an all-out conflict with the neighbours and most of whom have made discreet arrangements to get out themselves at the sight of assegais, or failing that to send families and children to a safe place further Rimwards. There is an air of hysteria and every black or coloured is instantly distrusted as if they were a fifth column of the enemy ready to rise up and strike from within. Consequently, apartheid here is not merely petty, it is ratcheted up to a level of oppressiveness and heavy-handed stupidity that (were the blacks not so cowed and beaten down) makes it abundantly clear to any objective outsider that given a chance and clear leadership, some at least will inevitably rebel. It has to be better than the alternative.

Rivka said most of the women she shared a cell with were there not for the usual criminal offences but for transgressing apartheid law – being in the white parts of town without a valid pass or identity papers, for instance, or getting foully drunk to escape the daily grind at least for a few hours.

I can believe this. Treatment of black and coloured people here is not progressive or liberal. **(8)** Needless to say, BOSS are present here, going about their necessary work of monitoring, raising morale, repeating the mantras about striving for a White Howondaland, and will no doubt be the first to move to a more secure place, so as to continue working for the common good, if the Zulus attack.

We visitors were shown the hunting trophies that distant cousin-by-marriage Pieter Fleming Volteyn van der Bly is so very proud of and endured the long bombastic tales of how he bravely and manfully brought down this lion, this rhinoceros, that elephant, despite the grave threat to life and limb. You would despise him too, Johanna. He appears to believe that Smith-Rhodesia is nothing more than his personal fiefdom for big-game hunting, but spared a by-the-way passing thought to hoping that the Zulus _will_ invade, so he can take out his hunting weapons and have a few heads on the wall which belong to the biggest game of all.

I am coming to believe he is mad.

The group of military officers who were also summoned to this tour of inspection put up with it with a sort of weary tolerance, although his coterie of hangers-on and sycophants hung on his every word with attention and a sort of rapt devotion. Cousin Suki had tagged on too; she wasn't taking any actual notes, but you could see she was storing things to memory to be taken out and transcribed later for wider dissemination.

She is a writer of news. A good memory comes with the vocation.

"Tell me about this _zoo_ in Ankh-Morpork." our host said, with an air of incredulousness. "Your sister established this place and keeps many, many, interesting game animals. Hubland snow leopards. I've heard of them. Man, I'd pay dearly for one of those heads on the wall and a pelt on the floor!"

I refrained from saying that paying dearly is _exactly_ what he'd do if he went anywhere near the Zoo with a hunting crossbow.

"Can't _believe_ she hasn't thought of opening the place up to paying sportsmen. All those lions, tigers, leopards, rhinoceroses, bewildebeeste, gorillas and things _and nobody gets to hunt them_?"

He shook his head. I decided to be innocent and said

"My sister considers the purpose of a Zoo is for observation, education and conservation." I said, carefully. "Especially the last. Controlled and monitored breeding, to ensure the survival of the species and that the animals thrive. I understand this is a _different_ point of view, and may be perceived as unconventional."

Van der Byl pretended to consider this. Then he said, dismissively:

"Well, zookeepers have their purposes, I suppose. If the purpose of this controlled breeding ensures a healthy and ample supply of animals to be hunted in future so that there are enough to go round. I suppose I can't complain about that!"

There was sniggering and laughter from his clique of like-minded companions. I sighed and got creatively, usefully, angry.

"It is a point of view, sir. If you ever visit Ankh-Morpork, I would be very happy to introduce you to Johanna. I'm very certain she would be pleased to hear your point of view and to debate the issues involved with you. She would listen with great attention, and then deliver a counter-argument for your consideration. I'm _absolutely_ certain of that!"

I noticed another Army officer, not part of the van der Byl clique, standing apart from the group, watching me with great interest. He was dapper, about the same age as you or slightly older, and did not look like the sort of officer who cares to wear more formal uniform very often, as if he is not at ease in it and prefers more casual working dress. He had the rank badges of _liutnant-kolonel_ , one step below van der Byl, and the unit badge he wore had a stylized bird of prey swooping to strike with the motto "Pamwe Chete!" underneath it. **(9)**

He treated the oaf van der Byl with the respect due to a superior officer, or perhaps that necessary from a guest to his host, but not much more than that. I noticed the clique around their Leader treated this man with wary respect, much as the known School Bullies learnt to treat Rivka after they _really_ got to know what she's capable of. It had _exactly_ that sort of ambience to it.

Later on he spoke to me.

But for now, van der Byl dismissed me and transferred his attention to Horst Lensen, treating the young hero with jovial avuncular familiarity. Horst was praised for having despatched so many Zulus to meet their gods, and it must have been fun for you getting those two girlies out of trouble and rescuing them, _ja-nie_? (Hard to restrain a snarl sometimes. My lip did curl, though. The interesting officer regarded me with interest, watching my reaction: I decided to bide my time.)

"Hardly that, sir." Horst said, diplomatically. "Believe me, they are graduates of the Guild of Assassins and they require little rescuing. From anybody."

This was interesting: the old Horst Lensen would have enthusiastically gone along with this and added a few choice remarks all of his own about a woman's place being the home, kitchen, and children. And even though these were exactly the sort of braying oafs he would have been pathetically eager to be accepted by at School, he seemed in no hurry to seek to join the gang. This is interesting, Johanna. Maybe he is growing up.

"And between them, they got a lot more Zulus than I did." he added. "They blew the boat out of the water, for instance. I merely got the leftovers."

Van der Byl considered this.

"Well, now you're blooded against Zulus, why not come on a hunting trip with us? Try your hand against some really big game!"

Horst shook his head.

"I'm afraid I must decline, sir. I have urgent business that cannot wait. I need to get to Pratoria most urgently to report to the Guild. This is demanded of me."

"Well, another time, eh?" van der Byl said, accepting this.

Horst smiled slightly.

"To be honest, sir, Zulus are enough for me. I have no argument with wildlife. I go my way, and the lions go theirs. Both I and the lions are in agreement on this."

I don't think distant cousin van der Byl gets refused often. And for Horst Lensen to refuse his offer… the old Horst would have been pathetically eager for acceptance by the smart set and the alpha-males and begged for their good favours. This gave me something to think about.

And then the quietly competent Kolonel with the "Pamwe Chete!" motto on his unit badge sought me out. Outside the house full of silent dead creatures, where the air was cleaner.

I noted he also thanked the black servant who offered us drinks. For Smith-Rhodesia, this is vanishingly rare and eccentric behavior.

"I'm told Johanna's married now." he said. I got a hint of wistful regret there. "with children."

This opened up the conversation: I explained about you, and Ponder, and Bekki and Famke. The Kolonel nodded attentively.

"I'm glad." he said. "Remember me to her. Hans Dreyer. We were junior officers together in the old days. Man, your sister could _fight_!"

We shook hands and Liutnant-Kolonel Hans Dreyer told me a few stories of the old days, down in Wafa-Wafa on the Matabele frontier where you were posted in National Service.

"Don't get me wrong." he said, with that hint of wistful regret again. "She was a buddy. One of the bros. Or in her case, a _bra_. She earned her place in the Slew. Perhaps I'd have _liked_ to. But some things you do not have the courage for."

Did you get that a lot before you met Ponder? Men who would have liked to, but who couldn't find the courage? Even a man nicknamed Koevoet, the Crowbar, for his courage and direct way in battle and (I noted) a winner of the Gold Star – twice?

Hans "Koevoet" Dreyter told me a few stories about you when you were the same age as me – you kept this side of yourself quiet! – then added

"Heard what you did to get here. It must run in the family, I guess. Listen. We take fighting girl soldiers now. The best. It's opened up a bit since they sent us Johanna to learn how to be a non-combatant administrative officer, who wasn't meant to leave the base depot at Wafa."

He paused for a moment and the slightest flicker of a smile crossed his face. As it did on mine. You as a rear-echelon non-combatant? Whoever dreamt that one up wasn't thinking straight.

"A lot of armies around the Disc suddenly found that out after the Borogravian business. Then _very quickly_ opened up to the idea of girl soldiers. You've been seven years at the Assassins' School. You've fought Zulus hand-to-hand without flinching. You managed to blow their warship out of the river. You'll be doing National Service soon. I hear the Navy want you. De Noorde thinks you're amazing. So do I. I want you in the Slew, like your sister. Pass out of officer school – and you _will_ – then I'll snap you up. But your choice."

The Selous Scouts, Johanna. An élite fighting kommando with a reputation. I was being headhunted.

"And that bro of yours, Lensen. I was impressed he managed to say "no" to the dreck-kop draadtrekker."

We discussed Horst Lensen for a while. _De Koevoet_ nodded thoughtfully.

"I appreciate you didn't see too much of a good side to him when you were at school. But he was a boy, Mariella. It takes longer for boys to grow up. Just because he was a _pielkop_ at eleven doesn't necessarily mean he'll still be a _pielkop_ at nineteen or twenty. I see something worth bringing on in that fellow. And you say he's thinking twice about BOSS now? Sounds to me as if he needs a helping hand there. If I ask to give him a try-out to see if he makes it and doesn't wash out, BOSS will just have to suck it up and lose a candidate. He's been put through the mangle and squeezed out – but _he got here_. That's worth considering. He pushed himself to the brink and nearly died. I can see that in his face. But he's here. I can use men with that sort of determination. If he needs a few rough edges chopping off, then hell, we do that too."

The Crowbar grinned. I think I can see why he has the reputation he does as a fighting leader.

"Your sister had a few jagged edges. The Slew started filing those back. At least, the _unhelpful_ ones. The Assassins' Guild did the rest, by all accounts. It's not as if we aren't used to difficult people. But anyway. I'll talk to young Lensen. See if he's interested. I really need to talk to you about another thing."

He introduced me to a different group of military officers. A couple of civilians were there too. This was a different faction to the sycophants who surrounded van der Byl. These were the capable, competent, ones. Captain de Noorde of the Navy was among them. And it reeked of conspiracy. A circle of quietly concerned older men with worries.

It transpired that the biggest concern was the senior military hierarchy.

Our distant cousin Pieter Fleming van der Byl is nominally in charge of the Chirundu Military District. But the capable officers subordinate to him see him as a lazy, vainglorious, liability who is only interested in society, hunting, self-advancement and bolstering an undeserved reputation. Surrounded by hangers-on who can't or won't see reality. With a nervous civilian administration who would run a mile if the Zulus made any serious attack. And above him, commander of the military in Maniacaland, a key frontier zone, is even worse: a General de Rjuist who is completely detached from reality and perceived as unfit for command.

"Listen. De Noorde and I, we've been aware of a Zulu build-up for some months now. We knew they were building fighting river boats with Klatchian assistance." said the Crowbar. "I've got people on the other side of the river. I run small patrols in to observe and report. I've got a good idea where they're building ships. I've lost good people getting those reports back. But I'm explicitly ordered not to provoke them. I want to send a raid in. To destroy their navy yards. But it keeps getting blocked. The last thing we want is a fleet of Zulu ships armed with bloody flamethrowers throwing their weight around. It's getting serious."

"We were thinking." said Captain de Noorde. Everyone looked expectantly at me.

"You're related to Charles Smith-Rhodes. Will you be seeing him soon? He's got contacts. He's got influence. He can get things done. Would you be prepared to communicate our concerns to him? Unofficially? Believe me, you'd be doing a lot of people a favour."

Ag. I'm in the middle of a mutiny.

And I _know_ this is going to be read by my kindly Uncle Havelock Vetinari if I send this back via Pegasus. But I'm just wondering if the general thrust of Ankh-Morporkian foreign policy via-a-vis Rimwards Howondaland might be served by a change of higher management on this sensitive frontier, and a major war could be averted. Perhaps the Patrician should also be made (unofficially) aware of a situation?

Please also advise Uncle Pieter and get his opinion on the politics of all this? He will need to know. And I could use his wise advice.

Oh, and in case The Crowbar decides to launch his big raid on the Zulu military boatyard without official sanction or approval, Rivka, Horst and I have been approached to see if we'd lend our own professional assistance. Apparently it would stand Horst and I in good stead with influential people in the military, for when we do National Service.

I have discussed this with them both, and we are of the opinion that the Dark Council should rule as to whether they find this advisable or not. We'd be going in as Assassins and the Guild would be implicated by our presence, after all. Rivka has said they should make it a contract and negotiate a decent fee. "Even if you two have to do it pro-bono as a patriotic duty to your nation, I'm from a different country. I get _paid_. Twenty-five thousand after Guild tax. And I admit it. I am a mercenary. I'm in it for the money."

I leave this with you, Johanna!

Oh. And the newspapers have arrived here. At the moment I do not wish to leave the hotel. I am on the front page and several subsequent pages. It must be a slow news week.

With love

Your sister and aunt to two lovely girls

Mariella

 _ **To be continued…. Ag, a long one. Also to be split into a next chapter. Will the girls assist in a daring commando raid in full strength that could start a big war? will the Guild of Assassins (prompted by Vetinari) veto this? if they approve, will Rivka go on strike unless she gets the right money? In the next thrilling instalment…**_

* * *

 **(1)** to my story _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum.**_

 **(2)** Really true. It offers a bilingual bonus to readers of Tom Sharpe's _**Piemburg**_ farces, where Liutnant Verkramp is a crazy, monomaniac, BOSS officer with much in common with (and was maybe inspiration for) Findthee Swing in the Discworld. _**Verkramp**_ in Afrikaans has a range of meanings – crazy, constipated, extremely politically conservative…. I did not know this when pinching the character to give him a Discworld incarnate. The knowledge arrived later, and came, like discovering the existence of national heroine Johanna van der Merwe, as a delightful surprise.

 **(3)** A long and funny discourse on SA's _braai_ culture by stand-up comic Barry Hilton. You-Tube it.

 **(4)** In our world, Sir Cecil Rhodes had the grand ambition of creating a British-controlled railway system crossing Africa from Egypt to the Cape, and at no point leaving British territory. He got it, too. Leaving aside the issue of the Rail Ways coming to Howondaland, a cross-continental system dealing in abstract information (which can be even more valuable than mere freight and human traffic) seems like _exactly_ the sort of thing the Smith-Rhodes family on the Discworld would want to benefit from!

 **(5)** Gods, the digging into African climate patterns I had to do to find this out…

 **(6)** Yup. Based on a real person. Ian Smith's totally odious second-in-command in Rhodesia as the nation lurched through the 1970's. Who happily urged total war and no surrender against black guerrillas, whatever the cost, and the moment the end came, fled into a well-funded exile in South Africa when Robert Mugabe took over. A high-functioning sociopath, van der Byl is rumoured to have personally executed captured black guerrillas rather than take them prisoner, was a devoted big game hunter, imposed a form of apartheid even South Africa thought was taking it too far, and was generally the sort of highly privileged oaf born into what amounted to colonial nobility, who Sam Vimes would have taken great job satisfaction in nicking. He benefited from Nelson Mandela's insistence on "reconciliation" and amnesty when the change came in 1994, and died peacefully in well-heeled obscurity some years later.

 **(7)** A continuity glitch in canon: _**Snuff**_ has it that Gravid Rust was Ronald's only heir and his death caused the inconvenient result of his sister Regina becoming Rust family head. But in the _**Fools' Guild Yearbook**_ , there is reference to another son called Charles who incurred massive gambling debts to Chrysoprase the Troll and was in no position to pay them off. The assumption is that Charles Rust disappeared in some possibly terminal way. Somewhere there's a reference to there being other Rust daughters, un-named after Regina. Good enough for me as I've written two into the unfolding tale…

 **(8)** This was the dominant impression received by outside visitors to Rhodesia during the Ian Smith/van der Byl years of UDI. British journalist Max Hastings – himself not the most liberal of commentators and an old-time British Tory working for the right-wing _**Daily Telegraph**_ paper – was free in his criticism and condemnation of Rhodesian social values (and offended van der Byl himself, frequently) - and was eventually deported for "sedition". Even the South African administration thought Rhodesia was giving apartheid a bad name and pleaded with the neighbours to tone it down a bit, as it didn't look good. Mariella is summing up many of Hastings' observations concerning Rhodesia and Rhodesian attitudes and values.

 **(9)** I am describing the cap-badge and insgnia of the Selous Scouts ("The Slew") who were a formidable special force of commandos tasked with fighting the jungle war against insurgency in the old Rhodesia. The motto "Pamwe Chete" comes form the Shosa native language, and roughly means "All together!" After 1980, many members of the Slew signed on in South African service, and echoes of the old force are still there today in special forces of the new South African army. Hans Dreyer in this world was a real person, a special forces officer who led a counter-insurgency force in Namibia and fought with distinction. Writing his Discworld alternate as a would-be former boyfriend of Johanna (who despite fighting any number of enemies with bravery and earning decorations for it, never summed up the courage to ask her out) seems fitting...

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **More Japanese trivia from tvtropes and useful for Agatean characters: this is confusing as there are two homonyms, or variants of the same sounding word, but it may have legs for a story somewhere.**

 _ **OJOU:**_ Pronounced like _o-joe_. Or _eau-djeau_ if you speak French.)

Literally, a formal Japanese word for "young lady", the term Ojou (often _Ojou-san_ or _Ojou-sama_ , as they are the more formal honorifics) is typically used in anime when referring to wealthy, high-class female characters. This term should not be confused with _Oujo_ , which means "princess" (literally "lord's daughter"). _Ojou_ is written with distinctly different kanji and has the accent on the second syllable while _oujo_ has it on the first. Regardless, this entry is in fact suitable for both, due to shared personality and mannerisms.

Extract from a PM reply to reader IanMalex: ref. my attempts to add pictures of my characters and visuals here and there to support the story. My DeviantArt account has some of the results; for instance there's an Assassins' Guild membership card made up in the name of Johanna Smith-Rhodes, with a photo on it I found and just _had_ to use.

 **Hi!**

 **Thank you for the kind comments! Yes, I found the "Johanna" photo on another site - actually, I recall it might have been of a South African woman - looked her in the face, and thought "where have** _ **you**_ **been since I started writing about you?" You just** _ **know**_ **, instinctively.**

 **I have located a face and style and an expression which is Mariella to the life. Like enough to be a younger sister of Johanna, but different. Slightly embarrassingly, she is an underwear model in an online catalogue my other half uses. I did a double-take whilst she was exploring the wonderful world of bras and, uniquely for me, studied the FACE of the girl modelling the said undergarment. When she'd done her thing online, I surreptitiously went back through her search history, located my Mariella, and downloaded lots of pictures of her with varying poses and facial expressions. I'm really not sure if there's going to be a plausible context for using them "straight" on Deviant Art. I suspect Discworld fashions and conventions for female underwear are different (I did repurpose a 1905-ish advert for womens' corsetry in a Discworld context: it's out there on my DA pages somewhere).**

 **Besides - and I know this is going to sound weird, but in my defence it happened to great writers like Charles Dickens (and others) too. I've had dreams where Johanna (and Alice Band) have interacted with me. Maybe it comes of spending too much time with imaginary friends, as Dickens discovered with his characters. They helpfully suggested plot lines and plot resolutions to him concerning their roles in his stories. What I got was Johanna saying I'd treated her fairly so far and she was quite pleased, but not EVER to tell the story of the Noodle Incident that happened with Alice on the night of their Graduation Ball. As this came from a hard-eyed killer with a big knife, I took notice of this. Oh, and her accent isn't as South African as I make it out to be, did I think she was some sort of a rooinecker zef or something?**

 **I think she likes me. I'm relieved. The alternative, even in a dream, could be much worse. Having her little sister stripped to her underwear could be bad for the health. I don't read Mariella as putting up with that sort of indignity for very long. I don't want her popping up in my dreams to complain. Perhaps I can put her face and hair onto a clothed body, or something.**

 **thanks for the tips! I tend to do very basic photo manipulation in MS Paint and MS PhotoEditor when I had it - but that seems to have disappeared in the current incarnation of Windows. Damn, I quite liked that and it had some neat effects you couldn't get in Paint. Time for Adobe photoshop, perhaps.**


	30. Warfare by other means

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty: Diplomacy: warfare by other means  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave. Who, they are discovering, was no hindrance to having a winning hand.**_

 _ **At last, Rimwards Howondaland! Well – Maniacaland, Smith-Rhodesia. With glimpses of events in Ankh-Morpork and elsewhere.**_

 _ **Incidentally, reader IanMalex was inspired by these stories to the point where he kindly offered to try his hand at illustrating them. I collaborated to the extent of finding head-and-shoulders pictures of "Mariella" and "Rivka" and he has photoshopped them into a nice picture set in Klatch, somewhere in the vicinity of Tzit, Otherz and En-el-Sams-La-Raisa. I like it. For those who are interested, I'm AgProv on Deviant Art and Ian is DWpictArk. I like this sort of thing! My drawing and formal art is minimal and I really love to see this sort of thing on paper. Or screen. If there's a "conventional" artist out there who'd like to have a go as well, somebody who can do cartoons/drawings/paintings ten times more quickly and ten times better than I can, I'd love to see the results! I've had this dream for some time of seeing my characters translated visually (but I don't yet have the skills to do it) and now it's beginning, I do feel chuffed about it. The big vision is to see some of my stories, featuring the Lady Assassins, as a graphic novel – I know that's still yet to be fully realised, but seeing some sort of beginning is fantastic!**_

 _ **Another long one. Now read on….**_

 _ **The Embassy of Rimwards Howondaland, Scoone Avenue, Ankh-Morpork. Sometime in Sektober.**_

Pieter van der Graaf smiled slightly as he read the message. It was a short note from his niece Johanna saying it had been a while and she'd love to see him and Aunt Friejda. Were they able to drop by for a drink, maybe stay for dinner, and catch up on the latest news? There was some interesting family gossip she rather thought he'd be interested to hear, fresh from Howondaland.

Pieter knew his niece well. She wouldn't say anything incriminating or indiscreet in a clacks message. You never knew who else might have read it. But if she was saying "Come over as soon as you can" that was as good as saying "Make it tonight. It's important."

He had an idea what, or rather who, it was about. For the best part of a year he'd been sharing the updates as to Mariella's eventful travels in Howondaland. Getting the news promptly had given him a useful edge in diplomatic interactions. And kept him informed for those tricky conversations at the Palace. When dealing with Vetinari it was advisable to be prepared.

"What's in the appointment diary for this evening?" he asked his personal secretary. The diary was consulted. Apparently, there was nothing that couldn't be rescheduled.

"Tell the Lancrastrian Ambassador I'll still be there at nine for an after-dinner drink." Pieter said. "But get me a coach at six to go over to Spa Lane? And clacks my niece to say we'd be delighted to have a light evening meal there. Friejda loves spending time with the girls and I can have a chat with Johanna. Find out what's important."

"The Guild of Assassins is usually very well informed, isn't it, sir?" the secretary observed.

Pieter smiled slightly.

"Visits to my niece are usually very entertaining, I agree." he said. "And informative. Besides, the Acerians are very attentive hosts and after an afternoon spent celebrating Thanksgiving Day with them, the most I've got room for this evening is a very light snack!"

"I'll communicate that to Doctor Smith-Rhodes, sir." the secretary said.

Pieter smiled, and reflected on Acerian hospitality. Practically every Embassy, High Commission and Legation in the city had its national holidays to celebrate. As part of the interplay between embassies, invitations were sent out to everyone else, even to deadly enemies. If you weren't actually at war with somebody and you had a national feast day to celebrate, you invited _everyone_. He reflected that it would be very possible to become comfortably rounded on other Embassies' hospitality. Several Ambassadors and senior staff were larger than was good for them. Smaller legations from less well-off countries were very glad of the endless round of parties, dinners and hospitality, in fact. The Embassy of the Kingdom of Lancre, for instance, considered it lavish hospitality to offer you a cheese sandwich and a beer. **(1)**

It was like the witch thing: the more you loathed somebody, the more generous a host you were to them and if they were your guests, it was a point of honour to feed and water them till they overflowed.

Pieter carefully assessed invitations, depending on political expediency, and as often as not despatched people as low down the scale as Third Secretaries. Well, they needed the experience. And the Ambassador couldn't be _everywhere_. Or else he'd weigh four hundred pounds and have difficulty with stairs and doorways.

But Acerians were fulsome and generous people and their idea of a running buffet was something even Wizards might think was overdoing it a bit. He and Friejda had attended anyway. Thanksgiving, to Acerians, was like a high holy day. And they believed in big portions.

But the food wasn't the point.

For Friejda, it was a chance to jockey for position with other Ambassadorial wives and fight her own version of war by any other means. She relished that sort of thing.

For Pieter, it meant a chance to keep his ears and eyes open and read his peers. Who looked worried? Who looked embarrassed? Whispers circulating suggested his Klatchian and Zulu counterparts had just been subjected to mordant sarcasm by Lord Vetinari. They'd been at the Palace, anyway. And neither Aladdin nor Canaan looked happy or composed. Something was going on, he suspected. And Vetinari had got wind of it and issued something that while it was not quite a rebuke, made Ankh-Morpork's position clear without being openly explicit.

He had shrugged, and resumed small-talk with the Fourecksian High Commissioner over a social beer, about the upcoming game between the Springboeks and the Wallabies. They had made a bet or two as between gentlemen. One on the actual match result, and the other on how many players from both teams would be stretchered off. Fifteen-A-Side games between the expatriot national sides always had an edge to them.

Pieter was confident. Danie Smith-Rhodes applied the same skills of leadership, ability, strategy, and naked aggression to the game, that his sisters did to Assassination. And for the rest of the week he was one of the most laid-back, pleasant, sociable guys you could ever hope to meet, without an especially violent bone in his body. Pieter liked his nephew and respected his strengths. One of which, he hoped, was the ability to turn his uncle's wager of twenty or thirty dollars into two or three hundred, plus the chance to present himself as a gracious winner in future interactions with the Fourecksians.

 _And speaking of his sisters…_

Pieter and Friejda arrived at their niece's home at just after six-fifteen. The butler Claude welcomed them in – Pieter noted how the man had become an Ankh-Morporkian butler in every respect, despite his being from Smith-Rhodesia and having arrived in Ankh-Morpork as an indentured black servant at the Embassy. Transferring his contract of employment to Johanna had created something interesting: a black Howondalandian servant who was deferential and attentive, without being in any way servile.

Pieter appreciated this. He felt he'd helped bring about something worthwhile and positive. He wondered if this was a future direction his country would end up taking. Part of him hoped so. Having to explain and defend apartheid to people who were incredulous that such a system existed on the Disc was something he'd begun to find mildly embarrassing. He was even questioning it himself and wondering - privately of course - how long his nation could sustain it.

And shortly afterwards he got to read the latest despatches from Mariella and Rivka and realised exactly _why_ the Zulus and the Klatchians had looked unhappy.

"Jislaik!" he exclaimed, realising that Vetinari was now going to want to talk to him, too. At least he'd been warned first…

Johanna nodded, soberly.

"I believe it's going to be in the late editions of the _**Times**_ tonight, uncle." she said. "Unless Vetinari's put a veto on it. A P-Notice, they call it. **(2)** Better you get it from me first."

"Dankie." he said, his mind working furiously.

"Johanna. I've never met this Hans Dreyer. You have. All I know is he's managed to win the Howondalandian Star in Gold _twice_. A national hero. Stories in the papers and soforth. You worked with him. Is he what the stories say he is?"

"Uncle. I can tell you he's brave. He takes risks. But he isn't reckless or mad. He plans carefully and takes the right sort of risks. And he doesn't shirk a fight. He _fights,_ in fact. And wins. He's one of us in everything except the pink slip. He's an Assassin, as good as. The Guild would award a man with his skills and achievements honorary membership – if he wanted it."

"And would he go against orders and lead his Kommando in a raid on the Zulus to destroy their ships before they get to pose a threat? Even if he's been ordered not to do it, on pain of being cashiered?"

"Ag, sack a national hero and court-martial him? Oh, he'd _do_ it, uncle. And now he's had a gift drop into his lap. Three Assassins."

Johanna paused and corrected herself.

"Well, two and a half, anyway. It's interesting Mariella isn't raging and swearing at Lensen any more, and Rivka's conceding in some small ways he's actually being useful. Kirstie said she's thawing to him. Maybe being tortured and nearly dying – twice – _does_ change a fellow. The person Mariella describes is not the headstrong bloody idiot I and others sought to teach for seven years. This interests me."

Pieter took a different approach.

"What do you think is preventing a maverick military genius from going in against the Zulus? Why hasn't he done this yet?"

"Uncle, the Crowbar's a planner. To get five hundred men and women over that river unseen to fight a battle is not going to be easy. And then getting out afterwards. He'll need boats. The obvious person to get boats from is this Navy captain de Noorde. And if he gets involved in an unsanctioned war, then he's court-martialled too, and his career's over. I'm betting he's holding back from taking that last step. Even the Crowbar needs support and back-up."

Johanna called for more drinks. Claude stepped forward to refill their glasses.

"But let's say things have changed a little. He's got two Assassins with proven experience in Devices and field demolitions. _Ag_ , I taught them! He also gets a senior student who's proven he can handle himself in a fight. You do know it's been decided, pretty much, to graduate Lensen? Unexpected depths of character and proven competence in extreme situations?"

Johanna shrugged.

"I'm not Dark Council, so it's not my decision. Out of my hands. But now he's got two talented people who know how to plant Devices and blow things up. If he's going to do it at all, he won't _need_ five hundred of the Slew storming the far side of the river. Two Assassins, and maybe a dozen or so Slew for support. Quick, covert, deadly. And he won't need de Noorde either. One or two small boats. I've said as much to the Dark Council. They're still debating it. All I know is, Vetinari sent a message to say Downey should attend the Palace, with no great rush. We'll know more in the morning."

Pieter van der Graaf winced slightly. His niece squeezed his hand.

And then Claude was answering the front door. A few moments later he returned bearing a silver salver.

"The evening newspapers have arrived, Madam." he said, presenting them. He stood back with an inscrutable butlerian expression on his face.

" _Jislaik."_ Pieter van der Graaf said, for a second time.

" _Eina!"_ said Johanna.

A prominent picture on the front page was of Mariella Smith-Rhodes respectfully kissing her ancestor's statue on the cheek. A caption underneath noted the return of a Smith-Rhodes to Smith-Rhodesia, remarked on the family resemblance, and said the great hero Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes evidently welcomed his heroine descendant to her homeland with both arms, albeit bronze ones.

A long account, by _Our Correspondent in Rimwards Howondaland_ , miss Suki van der Graaf, detailed the flight from Smithville, the defeat of a Zulu horde seeking to prevent their departure and to distrain the travellers by force, and their heroic battle on the river against Zulu pirates seeking to arrest travellers seeking only to return peacefully to their homeland. How a fighting vessel armed with a weapon banned under international convention was engaged by a nearly unarmed and storm-damaged craft, and how the three intrepid travellers turned the tables and sank the aggressor, with the confirmed deaths of all but four of its crew.

 _The landing stage at Smithville in neutral Urabewe was littered with the bodies of Zulu warriors who foully defied Urabewean sovereignty, and illegally entered in force, so as to kill or abduct citizens of Rimwards Howondaland…_ Pieter read. "Ag, just the sort of purple prose you can count on my daughter to write. Copiously."

"She does write entertainingly, though." Johanna remarked. She reread on.

 _Indeed, the Red Death has returned, to haunt the fearful dreams of Zulu warriors!_

"At least there's a line or two about my being the original Red Death, how I came to earn it, and how I have evidently passed the title down the family." she noted.

"But charging a boat. Crewed by three Assassins with crossbows who have all been trained to shoot fast and accurately. Brave, but stupid." Pieter remarked. He turned a page and read on. He whistled appreciatively.

" _Ag_ , whoever sub-edited this for the _**Inquirer**_ has made it even more lurid." Johanna remarked. "It's still got Suki's name on it, though. Evidently her usual style is far too bland and boring for them. _And_ they've taken out all the words of more than two syllables."

"And without even looking at the _**Ankh-Morpork Inquirer**_." Pieter said, still reading the _**Times**_. "I'm just betting there are _lots_ of pictures of Mariella and Rivka on Page Three."

" _Ag_ , what can you expect?" Johanna replied. "Although they're wearing more clothes than you usually get on Page Three. That must have disappointed the Editor. Still, you can't have everything!"

"Perhaps Mr Jameson **(3)** has sent an urgent memo asking them if on their next battle, they take care to wear far more minimal apparel and to ensure an iconographer is present." Pieter remarked, drily. "That would be perfection for the _**Inquirer**_. Johanna, I am reading this opinion piece by the _**Times**_ ' Religious Affairs correspondent. Even Norman Lamister can get to the point eventually, and even he has to refer to the facts in his capacity as a newspaper columnist. The editorial also sums up the salient points of the case."

Pieter van der Graaf smiled a contented smile.

"You know, Johanna, my professional peers at the Zulu and Klatchian embassies appear to have a real problem on their hands, largely of their own making. I'm quite looking forward to speaking to Lord Vetinari. Almost."

And then Annaliese the nanny came in, accompanying the children and a serene Great-Aunt Friejda, who had been helping prepare them for their bedtime.

"Say goodnight to Mummy and Uncle Pieter!" Friejda urged Bekki. She hugged Famke to herself, a happy great-aunt.

Bekki scampered forwards and then stopped, her attention drawn to the newspapers.

"Mummy, that's Tannie Mariella in the paper!" she said, fascinated. "Why is she kissing that yukky old statue?"

Johanna smiled.

"That yukky old statue is of your many-times-great grandfather." she said. "It's at least one "great" and possibly one more. You lose count. He was a very famous man, Bekki. Statues are expensive to make and only a few people get one. Your more-than-once great grandfather was famous enough at Home to get quite a lot of statues. And a whole country named after himself. And by association, named after _us_."

Bekki digested this and grasped that there weren't all _that_ many named countries on the Disc. She wondered if there'd once been somebody called Ankh-Morpork to get this place named after him, or somebody else called Sto Kerrig or Phleghmders, **(4)** then shrugged and let the thought go. Her mental map was running out of countries, for one thing. She peered at the iconograph, intently studying it. Seeing her favourite auntie in the newspaper, as if she was somebody famous, was exciting.

"He does look a little like you and Tannie Mariella, Mummy. In the face. His nose and the shape of his chin and things."

Great-Aunt Friejda beamed contentedly.

"Another night, you should hear the story of Sir Cecil. He was a national hero in our land!"

"And he gave the rest of us a reputation to live down to." Johanna said, with a hint of ruefulness in her voice. As the children were shepherded off to their beds, she asked if she could read the opinion pieces in the _**Times**_. After a while a little grin played at the corners of her mouth.

* * *

 _ **Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia.**_

 _ **Sektober, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben-Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Who is enjoying being a guest in the strange land of Smith-Rhodesia and who has been informally approached to help resolve a problem. Which she is prepared to do, for the right money._

Hi Johanna!

Well, Mariella is reluctant to leave the hotel after the papers hit town. I'm in them too, but as a supporting actress in the drama which is Mariella Smith-Rhodes. So is Horst Lensen, who, surprisingly, is coming over as a very modest hero of the day. He is stressing that whatever people think, he was only a minor player in our story, and that the attention embarrasses him a little.

I really think he has changed, Johanna. The old Horst would have soaked up praise like a sponge and attempted to take a larger part of the credit than is really his due. He is, perhaps, maturing quickly in a way he signally failed to do during seven years at school. I am almost finding his company pleasant and he is painfully aware, I think, of only being here on our sufferance. Therefore he is trying hard not to give offence – this would not even have occurred to the old Horst – and I have had to remind him, hopefully in a joking and playful way, to relax. Settle down. Whatever my reputation, I'm not inclined to eat him alive at the moment. He really did earn credit with us for his part in our fight, and we aren't unreasonable people. He fought with us, he didn't let us down, and that's earned him a few points. Mariella isn't calling him a useless insufferable shitheaded bastard any more, and is even addressing him by name. That's interesting to watch.

He thanked her for the full change of new clothing she paid for, for us all, and asked if he should add the tailoring bill to the four thousand he owes her. Surprisingly, Mariella smiled at him, patted his shoulder in a friendly way, and said no, this one was on her. A gift and thanks for his fighting well alongside us both. Besides, he's going to need to present himself acceptably when he reports in to the Guild bureau in Pratoria, and he may as well look like an Assassin. She was glad to help in that respect. It would be impolite to stagger in, wearing the tatty remains of the clothes he wore when he arrived in Ymitury.

Granted, she still calls him _jou bliksem_ , but these days it sounds almost affectionate. I am observing this with interest. You should too, I think.

We are making plans to depart from here and travel to New Scrote, the provincial capital. But Kolonel Dreyer, the Crowbar, is keen for us to remain and participate in his interesting (and exciting!) plan to raid the Zulu Empire and rob it of a ship-building capacity.

We really do need Guild guidance on this as it occurs to all of us that we could be sitting on top of a powder keg with a badly secured lid. If we are effectively the lighted match that ignites an explosion in the powder store, so to speak, there could be big repercussions. If a major war in Howondaland is started because three Assassins joined in an attack on a country looking for a reason for war, on behalf of another country which is geared up for fighting such a war… well, that's big international politics. The sort of thing the Dark Council has to consider when deciding whether or not to accept or decline a contract.

Simply put, if we start a major Howondalandian War as part of the Guild, Lord Vetinari will be asking for an opportunity to discuss the issue with Lord Downey at his earliest convenience. Whatever we do here will reflect on the Guild.

I would do this for the right money, of course. But as we pointed out to Crowbar Dreyer, it must be with Guild blessing and a formal written contract. Mariella pointed out that she has not yet signed on for National Service and therefore can at the moment only be _asked_ , not _ordered_ , to participate. Any involvement by she or Horst will be in their capacity as Assassins. Which implicates the Guild. Therefore Guild guidance _must_ be sought for all three of us. And Horst is still officially a student and there are constraints as to what he can do, under Guild law.

The Crowbar has amicably accepted this is a consideration, but has asked us to get a Guild opinion as soon as we can.

Please can we get a Dark Council ruling on this which will bind us, and which we are obliged to abide by? Preferably in writing so there is no scope for misinterpretation or disagreement.

Anyway, while Mariella is reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the Peoria Hotel unless she really has to, I have been enjoying the situation of being a heroine by association. It seems everything I want or need is mine for the asking. I am aware not to let this go to my head or to unduly take advantage, but outside, people are pressing to be seen with us and nothing is too much expense or trouble. I have had my hair styled, cosmetics and perfumes have been offered (and selectively received with thanks!), drinks are free, dinner invitations have been advanced – real sit-down dinners and not always a _braai_ \- and there have been the inevitable offers of marriage from hopeful single men. (Kolonel Hans Dreyer, whilst single, grinned and said "I won't ask. I'm the wrong religion and I suspect you'd only say no!" I like the guy, but it wouldn't work out. He isn't Cenotian and he's a lot older than me. Besides, he's married to the Selous Scouts and I suspect that's a demanding jealous wife. At best I'd only be the mistress.)

I am mindful of your opinion of Vondalaander men. Based on your experience and sage advice, it is not too difficult to say no. Although Abie Meschlinger, the tailor who so capably and quickly fitted us for formal clothing, has a wife, Rachel Meschlinger, who hinted at unmarried sons and nephews, and said I ought to be at least _pretending_ to look. Ah well, at least through them I can observe Sabbath and attend Temple.

I await the inevitable communication from Yenta Goldberg reminding me she is still on the case and hasn't forgotten me. Gevalt.

I have been sitting on the hotel terrace with a cold drink, admiring the peoria in bloom, and talking to Horst Lensen.

Of course, the Peoria is the national flower of your country and they are spectacular in bloom. Mariella and I are looking out for seeds and potted examples which can be sent back with the next Pegasus. As tropical flowers, peoria would not thrive in a garden in Ankh-Morpork even in the best conditions. But the flame-lily, so aptly named, in magnificent huge yellow and red petals like living fire, is such a beautiful flower. We were thinking that Doctor Bellamy, who has access to hothouses and greenhouses, would love them and they would be profitable if raised under glass and in simulated tropical conditions. A flower rarely seen in the city and therefore of commercial interest if artificially raised there? A thank-you for her teaching in botany, and the practical applications of her teaching in dealing with growing green things. And a pot on a warm well-lit windowsill in your home, perhaps?

But Horst joined me for an evening drink and was quiet and subdued.

After a while he said

"I believe I can talk to you in confidence without Mariella being present. I'd be very happy if you were to humour me."

"Go on." I said, deciding to be gentle and sympathetic with the fellow. He's been conscientiously trying not to be offensive or stupid. That deserves a credit of some sort.

He's filling out again after his ordeal and his face looks less drawn. Good food and rest are restoring him and the repairs carried out by Matron Igorina have taken well, with no complications. But as I discovered, the changes that have taken place are inward ones. They appear to go deeper than I had suspected.

(By the way, could you ask Matron Igorina, if she knows, what sort of man the new chest muscles she installed came from? We know from experience that Igoring transplants are not merely physical: something of the donor carries over to the recipient. Miss Perry-Bowen is the living proof. Whenever I deal with her I sometimes see more than an echo of Madame Emmanuelle. Not the full-blown Madame Two-Swords: but _just enough_. I suspect the original owner would have been an older man, physically strong, of good character, perhaps thoughtful and reflective and fair in his dealings with others. A strong well-balanced character who, if part him were to be transplanted into another following his death, might act on an unformed and immature mind and transmit some of his qualities to the recipient. Just as those copies of Madame's eyes merged with Miss Perry-Bowen's psyche, and gave her just enough of Madame Emmanuelle's outlook on the world at a time when her own mature outlook on the world was still unformed enough to accept it **.(5)** And boys do come to maturity later than girls.)

Anyway, Horst haltingly explained about the change in himself. He said it began when he was taken prisoner in Klatch and shackled to a slave gang composed largely of Black Howondalandians who had been enslaved further Rimwards. To him at the time, this was the greatest shame. He'd been hurled down from the exalted status, which he'd never had cause to question, of being a White Howondalandian, the highest thing in Creation. He'd been made, or so it seemed at the time, into a bloody kaffir. Lower than a kaffir, in fact. A slave.

And his brief time as a slave had imprinted him. He'd received some human kindness and words of comfort from his fellows in misery, the black ones, who'd accepted him for one of their own and who had advised him to watch and strive for opportunities to escape or advance himself. But for now, to be strong, to persist, to _endure_.

And he'd thought. Alien thoughts, about " _My Gods, is this really how we treat these people? Only we call it apartheid._ "

Dangerous, new, subversive thoughts.

Then we came along with Miriam and freed him. Well, sort of.

"It really was like that initiation ritual they say the Hashishim inflict on their people." He said. "From Hell to ecstasy. Never tell Mariella this. She paid for it. But Gods, it was for a time like dying and going to a sort of heaven. Miriam…"

He fell into a quiet reverie. I could see how Mariella might respond to that. It was amusing, in its way.

"I know they don't do it for the girls. But there's a point in Fifth Form or Lower Sixth when the Guild pays for every male student to have a night, all expenses paid, at the Seamstresses' Guild. You are taken there with a teacher or two supervising to see it's all done by the book, you have dinner and a drink, you pick a girl, and… well… you know."

Johanna, I know it's different for us and we don't get anything as interesting. Just as well, really. But they justify this on the basis of "rounding out young men with _all_ the necessary social skills needed to equip a young gentleman for life."

Could I ask what we might expect in terms of "rounding out young ladies with _all_ the necessary social skills needed to equip a young Lady for life"? Obviously not this, but something of equal or socially acceptable interest?

Anyway, Horst said

"It was like that, Rivka. Only not just for one night, but for five weeks. Lady Miriam also gave me lots of bhong, and I'm sure she was working on my head too. In between times. Reminding me that in Rimwards Howondaland she'd be counted as coloured, and what we were doing would be breaking the Racial Separation Acts. Only here, she was superior and I was her slave. That sort of thing."

Then she facilitated his escape. Horst was sensible enough to realise she'd made it easy for him in terms of allowing him to realise where his kit was being kept, ensuring he could break in and retrieve it, then locate a convenient camel and a store of waterskins.

And a day or so into the desert, he'd encountered Seventy-One Hours Ahmed, who'd guided him to the border. I suspect he has also been asked to make report to the Guild as part of the case-file.

Some time after that, the Ogglala Sioux subjected him to the Sun Dance. Anana Ogglala, the old witch-woman who talked as if she'd come from Ankh-Morpork, had spoken sternly to him and said there was no guarantee he'd survive, but in her opinion he was the sort of bumptious obnoxious young lad who might benefit, and maybe even _learn_ something from it. 'Sides, the alternative was the Ladies' Sewing Circle and nobody came out alive from _that_ one **.(6)** Which in her opinion was a waste of somebody who she thought was stupid but saveable, a young man who was frankly hard to love but had a core of something fundamentally decent deep down inside. The trick, she'd thought, was bringing it out for its chance to shine.

"You get visions." he said. "After two days when you're almost dead, you see things. I told you I got to see myself as other people saw me? That was shaming. It hurt more than the pain. But that wasn't all. I saw the man with the scythe. Death. He was standing off to one side watching me. But he said nothing and just watched. Then faded out. Then I got the other visions. The talking dog, like a basenji or one out of the wild dog packs on the Veldt. It said to me "Horst, you're really deep in the shit, bro!" and I agreed. Then it showed me pictures of what it said might be in my future. I saw Mariella. A lot, and in various situations. In a few she was killing me. Not nice. But in a few more we were together. Sort of married. That was nice. A lot nicer."

Horst went red. I realised something.

"Tell me. How is she getting on with Tim Bellamy?" he asked, out of nowhere.

I was surprised. Very surprised.

"They're not together in _that_ sense, if that's what you're getting at!" I said. "Tim's a nice guy. He's a _very_ nice guy. His mother brought him up right. He's a little bit frightened of me, yes. It's that _Scary Mary_ thing. But he shouldn't be. I like him, and anyway his mother's the sort who promises a world of pain to anyone who hurts any of her children. Believe me, Davinia Bellamy has it in her to be the scariest of _all_ Maries. I know Mariella was worried enough to ask her advice."

I smiled at Horst. This was getting deep.

"And there's the problem. Tim's secretly in love with Mariella. He's got a big thing for her. Only it's not as secret as he thinks and it sticks out a mile. And _his_ problem is the nice guy thing. Friend-zone. You know? Mariella thinks the world of him and he's like a little brother, best friend, sort of thing. But there isn't enough there for it to be more. That's why she had a long chat with his mum one night. About what to do. She doesn't want to see him hurt. More than that, she doesn't want Davinia coming round to complain. Anyway, Davinia took it all on board and said to her not to worry, it's a mother's job to be there to offer a hug and a hanky if it's needed, and all boys have to go through that at least _once_. It was part of the reason why we decided to do this gap-year thing. Say goodbye to Ankh-Morpork and see what the other side of the Circle Sea has to offer."

I smiled at him. At least he doesn't hanker after _me_.

"So you don't have a rival, if that's what's bothering you. But after the last seven years, you're going to have to pull something big out of the bag if you want to get anywhere with Mariella."

He sighed and looked crestfallen.

"I know. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, well, that's how it happens. I go my way and she goes hers. So it happens. Insh'Offler, as Lady Miriam often says."

I changed the subject.

"So what happened then?"

"Well, this talking dog thing grinned at me. I never knew dogs could grin. It said "Admittedly there are also possible futures in which this Mariella gets married to you, and _then_ kills you. But hey, you still get to be married to her in those futures. At least for a while. Nice girl, isn't she? So long as you don't provoke her. Or her sister. Or her Family. Up to you, Horst!"

He asked for another drink.

"Then when they heard me mumbling about a talking dog, they cut me down and gave me a few days to recover. The old witch-woman came and asked me what I saw. She listened, and said I'd seen one of the great spirits, the Coyote-God. I had more going for me than anyone realised. She was impressed.

"A week or so later they let me swap my camel for a horse and I made it to Sprained Ankle. Found out what I thought I needed to know about the forest and the jungle, and set off for this Smithville place. I intended to get a boat over the river, and after that it would be plain sailing."

He grimaced.

"Never made it. You found me in the hospital in the jungle. I'd been having more dreams and hallucinations. Mariella was in those too. And the fellow in the black gown with the scythe and the glowing blue eyes. A seven-foot skeleton in a robe. Looked down at me and said

 **YOU REALLY ARE A HARD ONE TO KILL, HORST CASPAR DE VRIES LENSEN. THAT'S TWO CLOSE CALLS SO FAR.**

"Then he disappeared. I had this mad fever dream about you and Mariella turning up, then there was the witch and the six-inch tall woman in Watch uniform who discussed how to heal me. Had to be a hallucination. A six-inch-tall Watchwoman. And I vaguely recall Matron Igorina, and then I started waking up properly. And now I'm here."

He grinned at me.

"It all feels better for talking about it." he said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." I said. Obviously I will not tell Mariella about this. But it adds to the weight of reports needed for the Guild to consider concerning Horst Lensen and is testimony to his sheer willpower and determination to survive. And for you personally, advance warning of an interesting Situation.

Oh, and if the Guild vetoes our active participation in a raid on the Zulu side of the river, I may have an alternative strategy which is sixty per cent bluff and what witches call Boffo. There are quite a few religions in town and all of them have opinions on the deployment of Klatchian Fire Engines. I think this may be turned to advantage. If it works, will I still get some sort of payment?

With love and hoping you aren't alarmed too much by events

Rivka

* * *

 _ **The Patrician's Palace, Ankh-Morpork.**_

"Thank you for attending at such short notice, gentlemen." Vetinari said, affably. "And of course ladies. We have, I think, a matter of importance to debate. You will all wish to know the position Ankh-Morpork is adopting concerning recent events in Howondaland, which have been prominently discussed in the newspapers lately."

He gave a slight smile to the invited dignitaries in the room, who included the Ambassadors of Klatch, Matabeleland, the Zulu Empire, Rimwards Howondaland, Cenotia, and Mr Joshua N'Crement (general retail), who was the nearest thing the City had to an Urabewean Ambassador.

Vetinari forensically summed up the known facts. Two nationals of Rimwards Howondaland and one from Cenotia had been pursued by Zulus whose army had infringed the neutrality of a third sovereign nation, with the intention of killing or detaining them. He nodded to the Cenotian Ambassador. But as they were not Ankh-Morporkian citizens, it was not up to him to make protest to the government of the Zulu Empire.

The Cenotian Ambassador fired a long unfriendly look at his Zulu counterpart in a way that said protest would _definitely_ be made.

The Zulu Empire had then compounded the offence by a second attempt to waylay three legitimate travelers, then travelling peaceably by river boat. A powerful inshore patrol vessel of Klatchian manufacture, in part crewed by Klatchians, had effectively committed an act of piracy inside Rimwards Howondalandian territorial waters and attempted, again, to waylay the same three travelers. It was also armed with a weapon declared illegal under international law and which, as the religious affairs correspondent of the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ had helpfully pointed out, had been declared anathema by, at the last count, one hundred and seven world religions.

The consequent sinking of the offending vessel and the loss by fire or drowning or crocodile of twenty-one of its crew members had been widely publicized, and, added to the previous death tally at Smithville, as something of a major embarrassment for both the Zulu Empire and for the Seriphate of Klatch.

Most commentators, in fact, were hailing the brief and decisive naval battle as a well-deserved slap in the face for bullies and aggressors everywhere, and especially in Howondaland.

"Indeed, Ambassador, the Red Death has returned to stalk your land." Vetinari said, pleasantly, to Canaan N'Vectif Banana. The Zulu Ambassador winced. "As with the previous exemplar of the epithet, I wish you luck in seeking her head for a ceremonial assegai. I hope not _too_ many men are lost in the attempt."

It had been a headline in the times: _**Zulus Fear The Red Death Has Returned!**_ under an iconograph of Mariella Smith-Rhodes, next to a helpful archive picture of her older sister. The full colour iconography helpfully emphasized the shared red hair.

"Indeed, I understand the Guild of Gamblers has opened the book on how many confirmed Zulu deaths the younger Miss Smith-Rhodes will be responsible for." Vetinari said. "The best current estimate stands at twenty-nine, I believe. A figure which is likely to rise with time."

He again smiled slightly.

"A bet which is in profound bad taste, but completely in keeping with the ethos of this City. I do not propose to interfere with a legitimate Guild operating in its own area of expertise. _Any_ legitimate Guild."

He nodded in the direction of Lord Downey. Then went on:

"I do note current odds on Miss Smith-Rhodes or Miss ben-Devorah actually being _killed_ now stand at several thousand to one. Against. And odds on the outbreak of full-scale war in Smith-Rhodesia are now standing at six to one. On. Which concerns me. The Gamblers know how to precisely calculate odds. Or they wouldn't be as good at it as they currently are. Their combination of intuition, shrewd guesswork, and practical reading of situations is something Mr Jones has turned into an art form over the years, and that Guild is now extraordinarily rich."

Vetinari looked severely around the room.

"Let me reiterate that my position is simple. I do not want to see full-scale war _anywhere_ on the Disc. I appreciate that minor misunderstandings and border incidents happen. So long as they are limited and do not escalate, this is regrettable, but perhaps inevitable. What engineers on the Rail Ways call a _safety valve_ is vitally necessary, so as to vent excess steam that if left unchecked can cause the whole boiler to blow. With catastrophic results and a lot of pink steam."

He looked severely around the room.

"Which leads me to remark that as we speak, an informal consortium is exploring finance and practical methods of exporting the Rail Ways technology to Rimwards Howondaland. This will require a vast amount of finance, most likely to be offered at good interest rates by banks and lending institutions based in this City. For this dream to become a reality, it also involves the export of patented technology and expertise from this City. For which this Government can grant or with-hold approval."

Vetinari held the eyes of Pieter van der Graaf for a few seconds, to be sure he was getting the point.

"And both Matabeleland and the Zulu Empire are keen to get the Clacks. Which also requires approval of export, as well as substantial financial backing, from this City."

He stared out two other Ambassadors.

"I would like to see such prestigious projects, desired by senior people in all administrations, come to fruition. I'm sure the Paramount Kings have stressed to their Ambassadors here how dearly they want such modern and prestigious refinements. And that people like Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes believe the Rail Ways are desirable things to have, and are keen to be involved in further modernizing their nation."

All three Ambassadors winced. Vetinari turned to Lord Downey.

"Please explain the Guild of Assassins' policy concerning, for instance, any formal contract arrangement with the government of Rimwards Howondaland." he invited.

Downey cleared his throat.

"Obviously, sir, I cannot go into specific details." Downey said. "But were we to be approached, which so far we have not been, either on an official or an unofficial basis, we might grade the operational situation as one which attracts great hazards and local difficulties even for the best operatives. Consequently the rewards have to be commensurately enhanced for both the Guild and the operatives involved. We would begin at a contract price of three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Fifty per cent up front, as usual. After Guild tax, this leaves one hundred and ninety thousand to be shared between, I believe, two fully licenced Assassins and a student under advanced tuition. Seventy-five thousand each to the two full Assassins, and forty thousand to the apprenticed Student, sounds a fair division. On his part, less, of course, around ten thousand dollars incurred to the Guild in facilitating his rescue after an earlier mishap. Which is fair."

Downey then watched Pieter van der Graaf wince at the astronomical cost. He'd have to relay this to his Government. Good. The Dark Council had agreed they couldn't refuse the contract, if solicited. Prestige and pride dictated this. But they didn't want to start a war either and incur Vetinari's censure. Setting the contract fee so high it was likely to be declined by the client seemed like an elegant way out of the bind.

"I would also propose for Ambassador van der Graaf's information, that this cannot be anything other than a formal Guild contract." he said. "Neither Miss Smith-Rhodes nor Mr Lensen has signed up for their National Service yet, and they are therefore not members of your country's armed forces. Yet. So they cannot undertake this action in any other capacity than as licenced Assassins on a formal contract. Which means we insist on our right to payment and contractual terms. We can also refuse permission for Miss ben-Devorah, as a Guild member, to undertake any action unless she is retained on a contract. This is not negotiable."

Downey smiled, having made his point.

"And by the way, Pieter, I understand it wasn't possible to keep the Horst Lensen story out of the newspapers forever. Please thank your daughter for me, for writing it in such a way that we came out favourably. I appreciate that she stressed that the moment we realized there was a problem, we moved Heaven and Disc to get a rescue mission out there led by the extremely capable Mariella Smith-Rhodes, and despite the expense, they got our Guild member out of slave prison and into freedom."

Downey smiled, thoughtfully.

"You know, I don't remember my actually _saying_ at any point _"hang the expense, one of our people is in trouble!"_ but perhaps my memory is at fault there."

Pieter van der Graaf smiled.

"It perhaps comes under the heading of paraphrase and artistic reconstruction of a thought that was certainly in the forefront of your mind, Donald." he remarked.

"Well, I'm glad _that's_ amicably resolved." Vetinari said, drily. "I suspect the licenced Assassin Horst Lensen is now a changed-for-the-better and more mature person for his adventures. As my _adoptive niece_ appears to realise."

He shared the private joke with van der Graaf, who winced. At the back of the room, Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had been brought along by Downey in case her opinion was needed, smiled slightly. She also noted Vetinari's emphasis on the _licenced Assassin_ part that, strictly speaking, was not Lensen's status. Yet.

Vetinari nodded amiably at the two Black Howondalandian ambassadors.

"I do not propose to tell either of you that you cannot have a maritime presence on a riparine border of your respective countries." he said, amicably. "That would be unwarranted interference in your sovereign affairs. However, there are concerns as to the _nature_ of the weapons you propose to install on your ships. High Priest Ridcully, you've been silent so far, no doubt in reverent contemplation of the issues?"

"Indeed, m'lord!" Hughnon Ridcully said, stepping forward on cue.

"Holy writ, pronounced doctrine, infallible dogma and lots of Bull shared by many religions tells us these Klatchian Fire Engines are a bloody abomination before the Gods."

He passed a single slip of paper to Vetinari. Who read it with interest and then nodded.

"Statement for the Press to go into the _**Times**_ later." Ridcully said, emphatically. "Signed by almost all the major Church leaders."

"Almost all?" the Zulu Ambassador asked, seeing a shred of hope.

"Well, the bloody Offlerians are holding out." Ridcully admitted. "Klatchian religion, you'd expect that. But most of us agree these things are a blasphemy in the eyes of the Gods, are an abomination on the field of battle, invite full censure of the Gods on those daring to use them, and they should be scrapped right away. I'm all in favour."

"And that has practical repercussions, how, precisely?" Canaan N'Vectiv Banana inquired.

"Bad publicity. The empire becomes loathed by all right-thinkin' folk for embracing evil. Sort of thing. And another thing to consider, Canaan. Your country permits freedom of religion, yes? We Ionians have a big presence there? A few of your indunas are Ionian. Lots of men in your impis are. Now you take a vow of absolute loyalty to your Paramount King, do you not? To follow, fight and die for him? So what if in me capacity as High Priest of Io, I shout from the pulpit about your army and navy using these things? And believe me, Canaan, I can _fulminate_. I can fulminate the bloody fear of Io into _anything_.

"And let's say you still don't listen. It's vested in me by the authority of Blind Io to be able to interdict an entire country. That means the whole of the Zulu Empire is excommunicated from the love and fellowship of Blind Io, And enough indunas who command whole bloody impis are Ionian. And suddenly damned to the seven Hells. That's going to cause one enormous crisis of loyalty, isn't it? A large part of your standing Army excommunicated, and scared they're on the way to Hell? You never know, it might make the Paramount Throne wobble a bit. Maybe from the assegais being stuck into it."

The Zulu ambassador appeared to pale slightly.

Vetinari smiled to himself. Maybe with luck the threat of war was now averted.

"And young Tremmie Mume here made a few pertinent suggestions too. About her own Goddess and her thoughts on the matter…"

Ridcully invited the younger bishop forward to explain her ideas. The Zulu and Klatchian Ambassadors looked suddenly defeated.

Vetinari smiled pleasantly.

He said the meeting had given everyone lots of things to consider, thank you for your time and please do not let me detain you. He also asked the Zulu, Matabele and Rimwards Howondalandian ambassadors if they could spare him a couple of hours the following afternoon. If you could each bring your Naval Attaché or nearest thing to? Thank you all so much.

* * *

 _ **Two days later**_

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), in Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia. Now discovering she is something of a celebrity locally for various reasons, not the least of which is her Name and the cachet it confers in this unique place._

Hi Johanna!

Thank you for the communications from Home that arrived here with Olga.

I appreciate that it is unlikely now that we will be able to participate in any attack over the river. I am both relieved and disappointed at the same time. Rivka thinks our Government are cheapskates for declining to pay the demanded fee and that she could have used a cool seventy-five thousand big ones.

Hans "Koevoet" Dreyer is disappointed too, but accepts that if the Guild says we can't go, we can't go. Another time, eh? Looking forward to fighting alongside you.

At this point Rivka and I put our alternative strategy to him, which does not involve crossing the river, laying any bombs, or inhuming anyone.

He listened, was puzzled for a few moments, then realized about "boffo" and laughed.

Later he accompanied us, with a half-platoon of the Slew for insurance, together with our special invited guest. We proceeded by boat to a part of the river, on our side, immediately opposite a Zulu kraal with high screening walls. (although there were clear signs part of the bank was used as a slipway for large boats). Immediately our presence drew a crowd, which is what we wanted. We deliberately made no threatening move as more Zulus gathered to confront us from their side. The river here is too wide for wading or fording and only a few of them had crossbows or bows. And it appeared they were under orders not to start a fight as well. There were several hundred of them and only – visibly – twenty or so of us. I was sure, however, there were a lot more Slew concealed in the bush and trees around us.

A Zulu officer, a senior man, perhaps the induna himself, strode to his side of the bank and demanded to know what we were doing here.

Koevoet strode forward and identified himself.

He shouted back that as the Zulu induna would appreciate, his command were entitled to a peaceable Church Parade for purposes of religious worship. Hence the Priestess. We are choosing to hold it _here_. Feel free to join in if you wish. Religious expression is a right to everyone.

He nodded to our Priestess, a missionary from Ankh-Morpork who has a thriving temple in Chirundu. She raised a Bishop's crozier which, strictly speaking, she has no right to. But like the extremely ornate robes we'd acquired, it was all part of the boffo.

And her voice carried.

She called upon the Goddess Anoia to bless this place and held forth, passionately, on the prohibited evil of the Klatchian Fire Engine as a weapon of war. (we'd briefed her as to what to say.)

In a long and passionate sermon, she blasted its designers and those who build and use it. She cursed the oil, she cursed the cannon, she cursed the trigger and she cursed the ignition device, and expounded at great length concerning all the small intricate moving parts in such a device. Such small intricate parts that by the mercy of the goddess Anoia, She Who Jams Things In Drawers And She Who Makes Things Stick And Malfunction, could be called to jam or stick or simply not engage at the critical moment.

She built on this with invocations of what would happen to the operator if certain small and finely engineered parts jammed, for eg when the trigger was depressed, and what would happen if pressure in the fuel tank built up and caused it to explode, and what would happen consequently when the fuel mixture ignited on contact with the air to anyone standing within a radius of thirty feet, by the grace and mercy of Anoia, amen.

We said _amen_ and _alleluia_ at the right moments, and she built on the sermon with many further finely detailed and graphically described refinements, adding that the destruction of a boat on the river armed with this weapon had also been Anoia's manifest will, and the Goddess had brought the Red Death to this place by design to act as Her agent in this matter, may Anoia be praised! ("Amen!")

The Zulu warlord opposite frantically tried to get his men to sing and chant to drown out the sound, but they were too busy listening, with those who understood Morporkian translating it for the others.

And a little later, the men and women of the Slew put their caps back on, the service being over, and we made our way back to Chirundu. They knew what we were up to, and it greatly amused them.

Captain de Noorde, who had accompanied us in one of his boats, was very happy indeed. We'd made our point, we hadn't started a war, and nobody needed to be court-martialled. We'd stayed on our side of the river and not fired a shot.

Rivka, still grumpy about missing out on seventy-five thousand dollars, sighed.

"Well, I hope they pay me _something_ for that." she said.

The Priestess of Anoia made an emphatic cough.

"Alright". Rivka grumbled. "Whatever I get, you get a tithe. Ten per cent."

Psychological warfare. Has its uses.

With love

Mariella

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Not that Pieter disdained this. Quite the opposite. He held that you could have too many seven-course banquets in the course of the average week's diplomacy, and just sometimes a simple cheese sandwich, a pint of bitter and a picked onion was exactly what you needed.

 **(2)** Before the Internet made it obsolete, British governments had a last line of censorship on British newspapers: a standing injunction called a D-Notice could be imposed to prevent a story going to press. This was only used rarely but was a massive sanction on editors and proprietors who had to – at massive expense – withdraw and pulp a whole edition. "National security" was the usual reason. Today, of course, the Internet makes it possible to read in other countries' papers and online what you aren't allowed to see in Britain. Reference the farcical situation with "superinjunctions". Ten minutes' diligent search online usually brings up the censored name and the reason. It helps if you're fluent in other languages, too! My reasoning is that Ankh-Morpork would have a P-Notice system, the "P" standing for "Vetinari".

 **(3)** Mr Derek Jameson, editor of Ankh-Morpork's down-market tabloid, appears in my tale _**Slipping Between Worlds.**_ He is also based on a real person. And yes, I know. Another stalled tale needing attention. Patience.

 **(4)** From a Wikipedia: " **Flanders** **,** Flemish _Vlaanderen_ , formally Flemish Region, Flemish _Vlaamse Gewest_ , region that constitutes the northern half of Belgium." In my Discworld, I see " _Phlegmderen_ " as being a name for a large part of Sto Helit overlapping Sto Kerrig as part of a language continuum. Annaliese the family nanny is of course from here and speaks Phlegmish as her first language.

 **(5)** see my story _**New Pair of Eyes**_ for details.

 **(6)** for more on the Ladies' Sewing Circle and the sort of embroidery it taught, go to my tale _**Rincewind Among the Redskins.**_

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 _ **Extract from PM conversation about the political sensitivity of cross-border raids between neighbours not officially at war:**_ **thanks! I also recall that during their Indochina War, the French Foreign Legion were absolutely banned on pain of everything from pursuing VietCong/VietMinh fighters across the northern border into safe bases in China. (Political reasons). The FFL routinely ignored this and phrased their reports with locations like "enemy engaged thirty miles north-east of Cao Bang" - knowing nobody at HQ woud bother to join the dots or consult an atlas, and realise that "thirty miles NE of Cao Bang" is no longer in Vietnam and was in fact well inside China...**

 **British soldiers also under constraints re. pursuing across the border into the Irish Republic. Apparently certain elements were not concerned with the politics, pursued anyway, and fudged their combat reports afterwards. Or so rumour and legend has it.**

 **And trifling things like borders NEVER stopped the Selous Scouts.**

 **Discovered Canada (** _ **Greater Aceria**_ **) also celebrates Thanksgiving, on October 9** **th** **. ("Second Monday in October" doesn't translate well into a calendar that has a Sektober in it. So it can be mobile for Discworld purposes). Canadians see it as an extension of the Christian thing of the Harvest Festival and it doesn't quite have the same force as Thanksgiving in the USA** _ **("The Confederated States of Lower Aceria"**_ **or something.)**

 **National public holiday: "** Many people have a day off work on the second Monday of October. They often use the three-day Thanksgiving weekend to visit family or friends who live far away, or to receive them in their own homes. Many people also prepare a special meal to eat at some point during the long weekend. Traditionally, this included roast turkey and seasonal produce, such as pumpkin, corn ears and pecan nuts. Now, the meal may consist of other foods, particularly if the family is of non-European descent.

The Thanksgiving weekend is also a popular time to take a short autumn vacation. This may be the last chance in a while for some people to use cottages or holiday homes before winter sets in. Other popular activities include outdoor breaks to admire the spectacular colors of the Canadian autumn, hiking, and fishing. Fans of the teams in the Canadian Football League may spend part of the weekend watching the Thanksgiving Day Classic matches."

 **That'll do me as an incidental detail. My Canada/USA can have its Thanksgiving on the same day (there isn't a November in the Disc calendar either).** _ **August – Spune – Sektober – Ember – December….**_

 **Harvest Festival in Britain is celebrated by the Church of England on the Sunday nearest to the Autumn Equinox, around 21 – 23 September. Note it's October 4** **th** **in 2017.**

 **On the Disc, a festival of thanksgiving to agricultural and fertility gods and to the Summer Lady?**


	31. All Steam Ahead - Going Home

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-One: The home run - all steam ahead?  
**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, having picked up a Knave. Who, they are discovering, was no hindrance to having a winning hand.**_

 _ **At last, Rimwards Howondaland! Well – Maniacaland, Smith-Rhodesia. With glimpses of events in Ankh-Morpork and elsewhere.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Chavham Navy Yards, Ankh-Morpork. Sometime in Sektober. The day after a discussion at the Palace.**_

Ankh-Morpork these days has a resurgent Navy, founded soon after the embarrassment of the abortive attempt to invade Klatch when only a ramshackle collection of ships could be found to ferry a depressingly small Army over the Circle Sea.

Part of Patrician Vetinari's thinking had been stirred by the undeniable fact that Klatch had quietly amassed a far larger and definitely purpose-built fleet to ferry a far larger army in the other direction, to invade Ankh-Morpork.

He had called together a small select circle of advisors to plan ahead and solicit opinions.

The overwhelming opinion had been "if we can't match them in numbers, we can out-class them in quality."

Vetinari had agreed. And the Duke of Ankh, prodded by his Duchess, had been prevailed upon to invest a goodly sum in the design and building of new ships that were built around the city's unique strengths. The Duke had also invested generously in new institutions such as _Lady Sybil's Own: The Duchess of Ankh's Guard Infantry Regiment,_ command and loyalty of which would be vested solely in properly constituted authority. **(1)**

The Horse Artillery had been born, using the skills of Artificers, Alchemists and Assassins to hone and refine the otherwise impractical and erratic Agatean Barking Dogs into something more reliable. And deadly. A battery of the new cannon had emplacements available to it, overlooking a wide flat beach on the estuary which was ideal for an invading force seeking to land an Army. Periodically targets were emplaced on the beach, or an old hulk of a ship was moored at sea in just the right place, and the military attachés of all nations were invited to watch it being blown out of the water. Just a demonstration, gentlemen.

The first Witches had been taken on to join the City Watch and to form the nucleus of an aerial force that could contest for control of the skies. At the time nobody had predicted that Pegasii, flying horses, would return from myth into reality. But they returned, by luck and accident. **(2)** Vetinari very carefully made sure the world knew about this. It was a happy coincidence that a pilot-witch and a navigating Feegle could pop up _**anywhere**_ on the Disc, suddenly, without warning. Vetinari very scrupulously made the Service available to ferry ultra-fast communications between Ankh-Morpork embassies and their home nations. Any Embassy could ask to send a message by Pegasus. Thoughtful diplomats and politicians agreed that using them to deliver the mail was preferable to, for eg, using them to ferry clandestine Assassins or large exothermic alchemy charges. As the Service grew, there could always be one or two pilots on standby in the city on Air Police duties whilst others did the daily delivery runs, or unscheduled emergency trips. The Service, nominally part of the City Watch, prided itself on its flexibility. Its motto was "We go anywhere, any time, carrying anything." **(3)**

While the Old Lords still raised and retained regiments, Ankh-Morpork now had the nucleus of a modern Army. And Navy. And an Air Force. Borogravia had seen the first outing of the Palace Brigade, during the peacekeeping operation. Thoughtful observers had noted a new sort of soldier emerging in Ankh-Morporkian red. A more capable, professional, soldier - and an officer class that actually seemed quietly competent.

The new military, its chain of command firmly tethered to a desk in the Oblong Office, was still small. A lot smaller than that of Klatch, for instance. But men were trained, served, and moved back to civilian life as reservists who could be recalled at a moment's notice. A Secretariat of Defence kept names and addresses and had letters ready to go, if needed. And new recruits were selected all the time as the pool of trained reservists grew.

And of course Research and Development went on continually.

The small select group of foreign Ambassadors, and their military attachés, had been courteously allowed past the gate guard at the Navy base at Chavham, in the suburb of Ankhmouth on the estuary. It was a long way outside the city walls and nearby to Sir Harry King's industrial estate. Because of the smell and the remoteness, not many people chose to live out here. It was isolated.

And Pieter van der Graaf had also recognised Ridgebacks, large and extremely territorial guard dogs, on leashes, for now. Vetinari was going to a lot of effort to keep this place secure. He noted there were very high walls and more discreet security. The base was also close enough to the Circle Sea for any ship docked here to be out on station within a couple of hours. Although his Naval Attaché had advised him that merely getting the _ship_ under way was never a problem. It was what you had to do before that - rounding up your crew from pubs, home addresses, Seamstresses' addresses, gambling dens, tattoo parlours, et c. That was what took time.

He looked around him to the Klatchian, Matabele and Zulu ambassadors and their military specialists. They had been invited here too. For whatever it was that Vetinari had in mind.

At least a junior Navy officer had taken them into tow, led them to a comfortable wardroom, and offered drinks. Outside it was getting a bit cold and choppy on the river.

The diplomatic group, men who in the main worked in parallel communities and who in some cases liked and respected each other, shared embarrassed smiles and thawed out over Navy hospitality.

"I wonder what he has in mind?" Prince Aladdin of Klatch mused. Benjamin M'Poto of Matabeleland, a man who could relax as his country was relatively uninvolved in recent bother, shrugged. Anything that embarrassed the Zulus and put the White Howondalandians on the defensive was fine by him.

"And why bring us here?" Canaan Banana N'Vectif asked.

"The bother on the River was down to fighting ships." Pieter van der Graaf reflected. "And this is their main Navy base. The two are related, I think."

He turned to his naval attaché. Rimwards Howondaland had a Navy. They thought it was cost-effective to have a Navy presence here. Captain Kiessman was the only actual sailor in the diplomatic contingent. Pieter considered that an asset. The others were soldiers who were here by default and uncertain about nautical matters.

"There are whispers concerning new ships." Kiessman said, vaguely. "I know nothing more. When they want to keep secrets, they're good at it. But Admiral Harrapp seems very happy right now."

Van der Graaf accepted this. He made small talk with the other dignitaries for a while.

Then a familiar voice said

"Thank you for attending, gentlemen."

Vetinari.

He'd somehow contrived to enter the room without anyone noticing. Until he'd chosen to make himself known. Van der Graaf wondered if he'd been there all along listening, but nobody had noticed. He was flanked by Admiral Harrapp, a man on the wrong side of sixty now, but still vigorous, the commander of Ankh-Morpork's new navy. **(4)**

As was common with Admirals and senior military officers everywhere, he was attended by a small gaggle of the uniformed flunkeys known variably as aides-de-camp, Executive Officers, or REMF's **. (5)** Vetinari was escorted by two of the capable-looking people known as Dark Clerks. They looked like office functionaries in unassuming dark suits. One was female.

"Thank you all for attending." Vetinari repeated, affably. "I'm glad you all had a courtesy tot of Navy rum, by the way. It can get uncomfortably cold at sea. Relatively waterproof jackets will of course be offered."

The diplomats looked at each other. Realisation was beginning to dawn on them.

"We're going on a boat trip, gentlemen. It occurred to me that if we are going to discuss matters of international importance where you will be tasked with communicating an account of this discussion to your respective administrations, the location might as well be completely neutral. I propose to hold this discussion in international waters outside Ankh-Morpork's territorial limits. Shall we embark for a trip round the bay, so to speak?"

"Ah. To the lighthouse and back?" Canaan Banana N'Vectif said, to lighten the mood.

Vetinari smiled genially.

"About fifteen miles past the lighthouse, I think. This way, gentlemen!"

He motioned to the Admiral to lead the way.

And shortly after that, the ship set sail.

Captain Kiessman shook hands with his Ankh-Morporkian peer, and the crew saluted as Vetinari and the Admiral were piped aboard. Kiessman then briefed van der Graaf on what he was seeing.

"She isn't big enough to be a frigate, sir. But bigger than an inshore patrol cutter. Two masts, full sail. Fore and aft, she's got one of the new artillery pieces mounted in a fully rotating barbette turret. At least six mounted heavy crossbows for close defence. New craft. Did you notice she hasn't been formally named yet? This must be a test vessel, on a shakedown cruise."

Van der Graaf nodded appreciatively. His experience of ships was limited.

Not a great wind, so if the Patrician wants us to sail fifteen miles out, it'll take at least three hours. Currently we're under tow from a tug to allow us to get speed up and clear the harbour. Tug's one of the new paddleships. You know, the ones where trolls or golems operate a treadmill and it turns the wheels. Ankh-Morpork got some pretty fast ships that way. Probably at least one golem aboard this one, if only to turn the turrets quickly and bring the cannons to bear. Ankh-Morpork has got some pretty lethal ships too. Best fighting vessels in the world."

"Amazing what money and ingenuity can make." Van der Graaf commented, drily. His Naval Attaché agreed.

"Wish we had the same, sir. It's all pretty much standard so far. One thing puzzles me, though. I'm not sure of that great big cylinder sticking out of the roof. Like a chimney of some sort. But bigger."

They stood on the deck and watched Ankh-Morpork pass by with a lazy elegant slowness. Sailors went about their duties, seemingly unconcerned that their Admiral and Commander in-Chief were aboard.

Pieter van der Graaf leant on the deck rail as the sails above him began to billow out and the escorting tug cast off. Vetinari seemed quietly amused and he was watching the Ambassadorial parties with intent.

And as the Ankh Estuary opened up and the city receded into the horizon, the ship lurched forward and there was a distinct chugging noise. Pieter smelt smoke. He looked up. The chimney on the top of the superstructure was emitting smoke.

And the un-named ship started to speed forward. the passengers noticed the sails were being taken in and furled. Something other than wind was propelling this ship.

"It's a new development." Admiral Harrapp explained to the guests. "Clever chap called Dick Simnel devised the motive power that drives the Rail Ways. One of his students, chap called Isembard Principality Birkbeck, **(6)** had a brainwave. Could the same black magic be used to power ships? So they experimented. The City asked for it to be done discreetly and had the R &D people base themselves at Chavham. Your Lordship?"

Vetinari smiled slightly, appreciating the reactions of his guests. Ankh-Morpork receded at even greater speed. Faster than a sailing vessel could manage on a day like this.

"I saw the potential for this new development and insisted the research be done in secret." he said. "Gentlemen, you are privileged to be present at the first trial and maiden voyage of the first Steam Ship. It will of course be prefixed with H.A.M.M.S. But her full name is as yet undecided."

"We'd like to clear that up quickly." Admiral Harrapp said, affably. "Bad luck to leave a ship un-named. If you fellows have got any ideas?"

Pieter van der Graaf smiled slightly. He had an idea whose arm had been twisted to release surplus income to pay the not inconsiderable costs involved in developing an idea like this. Well. _Two_ people who were known to bankroll the city for research and development costs.

"I could suggest two names, sir." he said. "One possibility would be the H.A.M.M.S. Euphemia King. Or possibly the H.A.M.M.S. Sybil Ramkin."

Vetinari nodded appreciatively.

"The time-honoured practice of naming great ships after great ladies." he said, approvingly. "I see no reason to do otherwise. I understand the inshore protection flotilla on Lake Karibou and its associated river system is named after national heroines of Rimwards Howondaland?"

Van der Graaf winced. _Here it comes. The sting._

"You have the _Klara Rijker_. The _Johanna van der Kaiboetje_. Who I am told became the first Johanna Smith-Rhodes on marriage? You have the _Marguerite van der Prats_. And the _Gladys Cleethorpes_." **(7)**

"Yes, sir." van der Graaf said. "I understand it was decided to name that ship with her maiden name so as to hold open the possibility that a future vessel in the fleet might be named the _Johanna Smith-Rhodes_. After the current holder of the name."

"And is your niece aware of this potential honour?" Vetinari asked, genially.

"Not that I know of, sir."

Vetinari smiled.

"My information is that two advanced vessels are on the slipway at Chirundu awaiting completion and naming." He said. "There is apparently a suggestion that as sister ships, the Navy could do worse than call them the _Johanna Smith-Rhodes_ and the _Mariella Smith-Rhodes._ Discussions continue, I understand."

Pieter van der Graaf digested this.

"Which leads me to the other possibility for naming this ship and sister ships in her class." Vetinari said, smoothly moving the topic.

"These are fast, sleek, efficient craft which bristle with offensive weaponry. The suggestion is to call them the _Assassin-Class Fast Destroyers._ All ships are inevitably female. It is possible they will be named after our new generation of Lady Assassins. The H.A.M.M.S. _Alice Band_ , for instance. Or the H.A.M.M.S. _Lady T'Malia_. She is overdue for a suitable honour."

"So Doctor Smith-Rhodes might eventually end up with _two_ ships named in her honour?" the Klatchian ambassador inquired. He looked very slightly disapproving.

"It remains a possibility." Vetinari admitted. "But I am aware this might cause discord from nations with whom the Smith-Rhodes family have not endeared themselves. That it might be perceived as some sort of veiled insult."

His expression of sincere concern suggested he was open to the idea that Klatch might not like this very much. Or the Zulu Empire.

"We may then have to restore parity, for diplomatic reasons, by naming a ship of the Assassin class the _H.A.M.M.S. Princess Ruth N'Kweze_ ". he continued. "I see no issues with that. The Paramount Crown Princess is well thought of in this city and is, in her residence here, an admirable and high-achieving citizen. But these are thoughts for the future, when if all goes well, our Navy will be graced with perhaps six of these vessels."

The ship sped on. The guests got a guided tour and saw, among other things, a crew of burly stokers feeding coal into a furnace below decks.

Vetinari smiled genially to his guests.

"Your Excellency, I understand the Zulu Empire may soon be relinquishing the use of Klatchian Fire Engines on any ships it commissions, following international outcry and opprobrium." he said. "This is for the best, I think. But your brother, the Paramount King, is likely to get somewhat irritable at such a setback and I understand when he gets irritable, he might perhaps forget to feed his pet lions for a week?"

"Indeed, sir." Canaan N'Vectif Banana sighed.

"So that when he remembers, he then remedies things by over-feeding his pets."

Vetinari shook his head.

"What I propose to do to, so that you may all pass better news to your governments. In the fullness of time, maybe not this year, maybe not the year afterwards, I may be minded to approve export licences for this exciting new technology. So that your nations might benefit from steam propulsion harnessed to nautical vessels. You would then be able to purchase ships such as this from our shipyards at competitive rates. "

Vetinari smiled genially.

"It can only serve to advance everybody. But my stipulation is that this will be open to everybody. Not just Rimwards Howondaland. Not just the Zulu Empire. _Everybody._ That way, no one nation gets a devastating advance in its naval capacity that its potential adversaries cannot match. You then remain in a stalemate situation and peace is hopefully preserved. I'm sure we agree this is prudent? Oh. And we will never export artillery. Or golems. To _anyone_. The golem people themselves, who incline towards pacifism and who will refuse to work for warlike purposes, agree on this. A hot place such as Howondaland would also find trolls are of limited utility. You would have to find some other motive power for refinements such as weapons turrets. As indeed suitable weapons to instal in them. Thank you."

Vetinari smiled, his point made. He signalled to the captain to turn about and return to the docks. He wondered if there should also be a demonstration of the firepower the ships carried. Just to reinforce the point that the _pax morporkiana_ could be enforced by pretty direct means, if all else failed.

 _ **Chirundu, Smith-Rhodesia.**_

 _ **Sektober fading into Ember, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben-Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin. Who appreciated being a guest in the strange land of Smith-Rhodesia and took advantage of the freebies due to a heroine. Now she is poised to leave Smith-Rhodesia, with rather less drama than accompanied her arrival._

Hi Johanna!

Well, for the last three weeks we have been making a slow, unhurried and largely uneventful way Rimwards through the strange and topsy-turvy land of Smith-Rhodesia.

We stayed on for a few days following the religious service at the riverside. (Apparently, a location favoured for holding religious services. Not _this_ riverbank specifically, but rivers in general. Lots of religious songs are about the special symbolism of rivers, and many religions favour it as a place for adopting new initiates, with total immersion in water and lots of priestly boffo. Not mine, thankfully. My specific ordeal involved having to read a passage from the Torah scroll in Old Cenotian, followed by a party with wine, and being forced to endure having lots of money thrust upon me. I endured that particular terrible rite of passage with fortitude and good grace. It did help that in the specific circumstances, one really heavy burden thrust upon my thirteen-year old shoulders was a large cheque from the Guild of Assassins, signed by Lord Downey and Mr Winvoe and made out for fifteen thousand dollars **.(8)** An onerous burden, but my shoulders carried it, and I was judged worthy.)

One thing we see a lot on posters and even carved into the facades of buildings is

"The mantle of the Pioneers has fallen on our shoulders to sustain civilisation in a primitive country."

This quote is attributed to your ancestor Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes. People believe it and quote it as if it were holy religious writ. **(9)**

As I understand it, the original pioneers were the Boortrekkers of several centuries ago: several hundred years later, Sir Cecil successfully revived the Boortrekkie spirit and led a new trek out of the Transvaal into a new country. And Smith-Rhodesia is all around us as we travel. Mariella is seeking to leave S-R behind us and cross the state line into the Transvaal. Where of course your family home is. This land is merely named after your family.

As people are keen to remind us on meeting.

After our adventures hit the national newspapers, our progress through Smith-Rhodesia has been slow and attended by excited crowds who want to catch a glimpse of the Heroes of Urabewe, one in particular.

A common comment is why, having _founded_ this country, prominent members of today's Smith-Rhodes family appear almost keen to avoid visiting it. Mariella is perhaps the first in many years, and of course came to fame through a series of heroic adventures and combats. (Her cousin Suki travelled with us as far as New Scrote, and put on a look of very well acted innocence when this was said. She believed that chronicling our Grand Tour is a story in itself, and has been sending regular Clacks reports back to her editor. Personally I suspect she just wishes to put off having to report on weddings, funerals and court appearances for as long as possible.)

The orange, white and blue national flag is everywhere, of course. But every state has its own flag. Smith-Rhodesia's is a bi-colour, of a vertical white band between two green, with a coat-of-arms on the white band. This shows a pickaxe on the shield. Mariella explained this is officially to commemorate the gold and diamond mining, which is incidentally the foundation of the Smith-Rhodes family fortune. Breaking the ground to build a new Land. There is also a legend of Cecil Smith-Rhodes, when directly attacked by Maniaca tribesmen, picking up the nearest convenient weapon to defend himself with, which turned out to be a miner's pick. Knowing your family, I can believe this. Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes commissioned a coat-of-arms for the family with this motif, I believe?

"We do whatever works". And if what works best is a pickaxe…

Soon we will be crossing a state border and leaving Smith-Rhodesia. Mariella is excited. I understand why; the Transvaal and Natal are her homeland. And yours. There will be a new state flag: the Transvaal Republic's _Vierkleur_ (four colour). Which is a vertical green stripe; symbolising youth and freedom, and the horizontal red, white and blue of the Sto Kerrigian flag. Symbolising the ultimate Homeland back in the Central Continent.

We are aiming to arrive within a few weeks at your family _plaas_ near Piemberg. We still want to travel on to Caarp Town to symbolically complete crossing the whole Continent from Hubwards to Rimwards: but Mariella thinks we can fit in a few weeks at Home first. We said goodbye to Horst Lensen (and Suki) in New Scrote, the town known to its natives, though not loudly, as _Curare_. Possibly because it's inimical to people who aren't white?

I can't believe it's fourteen months since we set out. But we were delayed far too long in the kibbutz in the Golems, wondering if we were ever going to be able to go. Everything after that moved relatively quickly.

And once in Piemberg, we are finally going to have to face up to the future and think about what we do next. Mariella wants to ask her father for his advice. I may too: Barbarossa, once the booming and the blustering stops, is a surprisingly reflective and thoughtful man. But then, he's your father. What could you expect?

Anyway, we packed Horst on the carpet flight from New Scrote to Pratoria. Suki had run out of reasons to prolong her leave of absence, and cheerfully said she'd chaperone him. Even though the commercial flights are Klatchian-run and owned, there has been so much bad publicity for them that they cannot refuse to take him and must see he arrives safely. Especially accompanied by the writer-of-news who got much of that embarrassing bad publicity into the papers around the Disc! They can't "disappear", either of them, not on an internal flight in their own country. People are watching. So all the Klatchians can do is to suck it up and fly them to Pratoria. Mariella paid the fares.

" _Noblesse oblige_." she said.

Suki thinks she can claim it in expenses and reimburse Mariella.

We said farewell to them with regret. Suki has been wonderfully entertaining company, and you have to admit, the New Horst hasn't been a bad fellow. Pleasant, even. Certainly humbler. I think that's it: having had Death at his elbow twice has taught him humility. It's made him better for it.

I'll write my reflections on Smith-Rhodesia and New Scrote later, finding it amusing that the signposts at the city outskirts boast

" _ **Nieuw Skrote/New Scrote.**_

 _ **Verbroederd Dorp Met/ Twined Town With**_

 _ **Scrote, Sto Plains"**_

"Ah. It's official, then." Mariella said. Apparently you once met a local dignitary in Scrote, the Old Scrote, who was working for this.

With love and hoping to see you all soon

Rivka

* * *

 _ **The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork.**_

"End all my expenses will be paid?" Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes asked, not quite believing what she was being asked.

Lord Downey smiled benevolently at her.

"Well, the autumn half-term holiday is coming up and you no longer have any House responsibilities." he said. "We have no objections to your taking your family members. Your two daughters might find it a wrench to be parted from you for that period of time, after all. And by this method of travel, a family group may voyage as cheaply as one person."

Johanna saw the advantages and smiled. She indicated her assent to performing this one specific task for the Guild.

 _Get it out of the way quickly and I can spend a few days with family._ **We** _can spend a few days with family._

Downey smiled again.

"Please sign here for the documents, Johanna. There will of course be a small ex-gratia payment for your time and trouble. A daily rate plus a one-off fee."

She collected several bulky folders to read at her leisure. She would have to tell Ponder, she decided. But Witwatersrand wasn't far from Pratoria. He could go and spend a day at the University's School of Magic and Wizardry. Fraternal greetings and all that. While she did the job she'd contracted for.

Johanna sighed a happy sigh. It was _nice_ to be active again. She'd missed that.

* * *

 _From the journal of Mariella Smith Rhodes, Licenced Assassin (Black Widow House), poised to cross from Smith-Rhodesia into her real home, the place of her birth, Transvaal/Natal Province, Rimwards Howondaland._

Hi Johanna!

Well, the religious service presided over by The Reverend Margaret Grangecombe of the Church of Anoia (" _It Could Be You!_ ") was pretty much a postscript to our adventures on the Border. It was satisfying and bloodless and in its way was as potent a weapon as any number of Devices inserted into the fabric of enemy warships.

It was interesting, when the _**Ankh-Morpork Times**_ arrived here some time after its issue in the city, to discover, amongst all the toe-curlingly embarrassing material and iconographs submitted by Suki, that our strategy for destabilizing and demoralizing the Zulus was entirely in keeping with Bishop Extremelia Mume's theological reflections on the situation.

But then, Rivka is a Cenotian: from Day One, Cenotians are schooled in thinking and debating these issues like theologians. They're renowned for it. The Reverend Clement always gave her work starred A's, in his Religious Education classes. My contribution was limited to reminding her that if you can make a generalization about Black Howondalandians, they have this great respect and fear of what they see as _muti_ , the application of magic. In a different sense, this is of course what witches call _"boffo"_ – misdirection, show, ceremony, what Olga and Irena call "making bloody sure they remember".

We enlisted a Priestess and got her to make a show of powerful _muti_ where a lot of Zulus would witness it.

And as Bishop Mume reminded the world in the _**Times**_ , Anoia is the sort of Goddess who can make her displeasure at the use of the Klatchian Fire Engine manifest in the world by causing its critical components to jam and malfunction. With possibly catastrophic results.

Those helpful illustrations, and speculative discussions in the _**Times**_ as to what could possibly go wrong, must have reached the Zulu Empire (and Klatch) by now.

Kolonel Dreyer also reported, a day or two later, that there has indeed been a regrettable accident at the Zulu military kraal. His observers on this side of the river who are watching the place noted a massive explosion and a fireball accompanied by screaming.

More covert observers (who Dreyer will not go into details about) have reported that after our religious demonstration, the Zulus at the navy kraal were worried and demoralized concerning the foreign Goddess who can cause machinery to malfunction and make it explode at her whim.

Klatchian Fire Engines, of which there are maybe eight or nine in that place, have suddenly become very unpopular and men are reluctant to tend them.

The Induna in charge of the kraal was petitioned by his men not to order them to crew the new flamethrower weapons. Please do not force us to shame ourselves by refusing your orders, O Induna.

He called for volunteers to make a demonstration and fire a weapon on the testing range, so as to show that there is no such thing as bad muti brought about by the white witch-woman.

A crew came forward, with reluctance.

As Hans Dreyer reflected, they were nervous, the weapon was unfamiliar, perhaps it was badly maintained, and in those circumstances worried demoralized men will fumble, make errors, forget their drills.

Or maybe it _was_ Anoia, buoyed up on a wave of new faith.

The weapon exploded, taking out a substantial part of the camp, several adjacent weapons, two boats under construction and quite a lot of the impi who had been paraded, at what was thought to be a safe distance away, to witness that only enemies of the Paramount King had anything to fear.

"Some are saying that the angry Goddess Anoia visited the kraal. Others point out that the preferred weapon of the Red Death is explosives. The Red Death must have crept in, unseen, and arranged things to her satisfaction, as she has done before."

Dreyer grinned.

"Looks like you've got a Name, Mariella. Even if you weren't actually there. They'll blame you. As far as I'm concerned, there's a place for you in my Kommando."

It now looks as if the Zulu experiment with flamethrowers is over and that their warship-building capacity has been set back.

We left Chirundu with good wishes and hopes for our swift return following us.

After that it was a slow journey to New Scrote, through towns and settlements where everyone turned out to welcome us. The newspapers really do exaggerate things, don't they?

New Scrote is… well. I expected the worst, but it is a surprisingly pleasant and attractive town with lots of open green spaces. A long way from any border in the centre of the country, people are more relaxed here. Apartheid is still offensive and unpleasant, but comparatively relaxed compared to the way it is imposed in the border areas. It is called a city by convention, but is really a large town of perhaps fourteen thousand people. Towns here rarely go to any great size. There is the inevitable army barracks, but Fort Scrote is inobtrusive and right on the edge of the city.

Its origins lie in a native kraal that once stood here called Curare. "New Scrote" is a reference to its "twined town" on the Central Continent near Ankh-Morpork, the birthplace of our family. I recalled visiting there with you **.(10)** At least Mr Dunham-Massey succeeded in getting his dream of "twined towns" made into something official!

I could live here. At least these were my first thoughts. And I can see why, for all their faults and inanities, Smith-Rhodesians love their country. It really is stunningly beautiful round here, where the veldt meets the jungle. We took time to go up into the hills and look down over the town. Iconographs are enclosed.

Seeing Horst and Suki onto the commercial carpet for what will be a relatively short flight to Pratoria was entertaining, too. The Carpet Service flies, as is usual, from the Klatchian diplomatic compound. This is by convention Klatchian soil and there was a slight risk Rivka and I might be arrested and asked to account for ourselves.

But they refrained. I think the bad publicity and the undeniable fact they'd be arresting Rimwards Howondalandian citizens under the direct line of sight of somebody like Suki van der Graaf, writer-of-news, was a consideration.

We were allowed in with evident bad grace and were not molested, although armed guards were never far away and stood to one side glowering at us as we saw them off.

We exchanged hugs and kisses with Suki, who gaily announced that the postscript to her story would be to see Horst get his pink slip and formal Assassin status at the Guild bureau. She was therefore prepared to chaperone him and keep him out of trouble.

"He's a nice boy." she said. "And don't look so suspicious, Mariella. I'm not quite old enough to be his mother, but a younger aunt, maybe!"

Horst grinned, slightly embarrassed. He's been getting a different sort of attention on our travels, by the way. Lots of women, some of them not so young, who have taken an interest. I'm not sure how I feel about that. But again, the old Horst would have taken lots of advantage. The new model is flattered and I suspect has dallied with one or two, but I'm fairly sure he has eventually slept alone in his own bed. Well. Fairly sure, anyway. Rivka has not been above teasing me over this.

"I would be happy to travel with my Tannie Suki for a day or so." he said. That's another thing about him: he is displaying a subtler and more intelligent understanding of humour. I find this unsettling. This is a man who once revelled in fart jokes and found them the highest form of humour.

She grinned.

"That's settled, then! Coming?"

They linked arms and went to board the carpet. We saw it set off.

"Well, _that's_ done." Rivka said. "Coming? We can walk out of here on our own before those big guards escort us out?"

We smiled pleasantly at the guards and left the Klatchian compound.

The big thing that is wrong with New Scrote is that the people are parochial, shut-in, and narrow minded. The fortress mentality, the sense of suppressed hysteria that we encountered in Chirundu is here too, though diluted and less immediate. They are fantastically keen to emphasise that they feel beleaguered, in a state that has only one relatively short border with the rest of Rimwards Howondaland, and otherwise bounded on all other sides by hostile enemy states. They are keen for news of how they are perceived in the wider Disc, and want the world to know they are prepared to fight to the death for their Smith-Rhodesia with no quarter expected or given. Even here, civilians routinely go armed as if they expect battle at any moment. As on the kaplyn at Chirundu, blacks are mistrusted and not well treated even by the usual standards of apartheid. This makes it an unsettling place. **(11)** BOSS is everywhere, the Verkramps and the other sort, the quieter, more intimidating, efficient, ones. I have the strong impression we are being watched and monitored. Rivka feels this more strongly.

We were therefore keen, lovely and beautiful place though it is, to continue travelling Rimwards and to cross the border into the Transvaal at the earliest moment.

The Transvaal is really coming Home. My Veldt; our Veldt.

And by horrible inevitability, you cross into the Transvaal at Beitbridge, a rather shabby and run-down settlement on both sides of another Beit Bridge. Mr Beit built a lot of bridges over Howondaland's rivers. But at least he built them well and to last.

And as I saw the _Vierkleur_ flying over the Transvaal bank of the latest wide river, the big river to which our Ulunghi is but a tributary, I knew I was really Home again, with Piemberg and the family _plaas_ maybe six days' ride away. It was a good feeling. We iconographed the moment of my return Home. Beitbridge is an abominable pit of a place which could be twined with The Shades, and we did not stay long. It is a pl;ace that people travel through, rather than remain in, and they travel through it quickly and with relief to be on the other side. Transit places are always like this. But I still saluted the flag. I was Home.

Mother will want to know we've been in touch, of course. And you know when home is near. The landscape becomes achingly familiar, and you register the smells, even the sounds, of Home strongly. This grows stronger the nearer we get.

With love

Mariella

* * *

 _ **Spa Lane, Ankh Morpork:**_

Johanna Smith-Rhodes kissed her husband fondly.

Ponder Stibbons still appreciated this. Life had settled down a lot since Johanna had scaled down her involvements with active work for the Guild, focusing on her teaching, her work at the Zoo, and being an active working mother. He was happy and contented. He could still put in a full day at the University and come home at night to a warm welcoming household and the small currency of domesticity. And it was a School holiday, so Johanna had a week off teaching with a weekend at each end. He looked forward to a nice week.

As always, Johanna's return home from work was met by a flurry of daughter and a mixed-species pack of growing kittens and puppies. Two growing cats, larger than the usual run of things for domestic cats, rubbed up against her legs while two large puppies bounded up and barked for her attention. Bekki hugged on where she could find a space.

"Ponder, tell Mustrum you're taking nine days' leave." she directed him. He understood her easily; _Vondalaans_ was pretty much a default language in the house, and he had become fluent. Part of him wondered if he'd gone native. "Starting tomorrow. We're flying at ten in the morning."

He looked stunned.

Johanna smiled at him. Then she turned to Claude.

"Can you get Eve? I need a word with her. If Annaliese could pack for the girls? Clothes and things for a week at least. She's best to pack a bag for herself too. Claude, if you can manage the house until a week on Sunday? _Dankie._ "

"Where are we going, Mummy? Is it a holiday?" Bekki asked, excited. "Can Pyn and Smart come?"

"We're going Home. To our other home. Howondaland. And sorry, the kitties stay here. We might be seeing _ouma_ and _oupa_."

"I'm pleased for you, Madam." Claude the butler said. "I understand you will be requiring a lady's maid?"

Johanna looked stern for a moment.

"That's why I want Eve." she said. "I can't really tell her. I can only _ask._ She might find home to be a bit… well, you know. After living here for so long."

The butler considered.

"I understand Eve has family in the Pratoria township zones, Madam." he said. "She might put up with the restrictions if she is allowed time off for a family reunion."

Johanna smiled.

"I'm sure I can manage that." She said. "I'd better have a word with Uncle Pieter about arranging her the right sort of passes. I don't want her getting arrested."

Ponder found his voice.

"Slow down, Johanna. That's me, you, Bekki, Famke. Annaliese to look after the girls. And Eve because, well, you need a maid. But what's it all for? And don't the commercial carpet flights take up to five days or something?"

Johanna smiled and told him.

"Guild assignment. Oh." he said. He had known this was bound to happen. Johanna would want to tackle a Guild contract again sooner or later. And after a year of spectating from the sidelines on Mariella's activities, his wife had been getting a bit restless…

"Expenses paid. Plus fee." Johanna said. "At most half an afternoon. Then we're free to travel up to Piemberg. A few days with family. The girls get time with their grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. While I'm working, you can go and drop in at the University there. Everybody benefits."

She paused and looked thoughtful.

"School holiday. Wonder if Young Johanna wants to come? I'll talk to Gillian about signing her out."

"Err. What's the contract?" Ponder asked.

Johanna told him.

"Oh." he said.

"Good. That's settled, then!" Johanna said, then gently shook off daughter and animals and went to pack.

Ponder stood looking bemused by events. The old Johanna Smith-Rhodes was back. In a funny sort of way he'd missed her. And with an Ankh-Morpork autumn turning to cold rain and grey skies with short days… a holiday in Howondaland. He mentally composed his request to Mustrum Ridcully. He'd ask what sort of fraternal greetings he should take to the School of Magic and Wizardry at Witwatersrand University. That should present the Arch-Chancellor with something he could get out of it…

* * *

 _ **The Patrician's Palace. Ankh-Morpork.**_

Vetinari looked over the desk at his secretary, whose face held an expression of subtle incredulity and maybe even mild disapproval.

"Yes, Drumknott. I did freely offer them access to steamship technology. Eventually. It allows each of the Ambassadors to make an exciting and positive report home, and it allows Canaan N'Vectif Banana, who is quite a pleasant reasonable fellow, opportunity not to be recalled Home to confront hungry lions. They all get something out of it.

"I may not allow the technology to be exported for at least five years. This allows us time to build up a considerable lead and to maintain our superiority. By then all the ships of the Assassin class, and maybe improved versions, who knows, will be part of our Navy.

"And Howondaland is poor in coal. Coal is needed to fire the boilers. They will have to buy that from us too, as indeed they will have to buy spare parts, replacement parts, and indeed the technology to maintain the vessels. They may get steam ships, Drumknott, but we will control them and dictate their uses, in so very many subtle ways they have not worked out yet, so eager are they for the sparking new toys."

Vetinari smiled.

"A satisfactory day's work, Drumknott."

 _ **To be continued….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Havelock Vetinari.

 **(2)** to my story _**Bad Hair Day**_

 **(3)** An unspoken second half of the Pegasus Service motto – simply "Ubique" in Latatian – was _"Aren't you glad we're the Goodies?"_

 **(4)** Harrapp appears in _**Night Watch**_ as the very junior officer tasked with communicating a message to "john Keel". Although it isn't made specific, a telling detail in the book is that his rank is specifically that of "sub-lieutenant" – which isn't an Army rank. It's naval. It begs the question of what a Navy officer was doing there: but Terry doesn't make errors like that. His choice of words was always well-chosen. At the time Ankh-Morpork didn't really have a navy… it's pleasant to think Harrapp had a career in front of him too.

 **(5)** "REMF" – consult a British Army slang site for the acronym.

 **(6)** I know. Unsubtle pun. _Brunel_ is a university in London which specialises in engineering. Named after Mr I.K. Brunel, a pioneer of steamship technology. _Birkbeck_ is another college of the University of London. _Chatham_ is a port town on the Thames estuary which until recently was a home port of the Royal Navy.

 **(7)** Researching names of South African navy ships, in among all the Afrikaans ladies so honoured was a seemingly out-of-place one called the HMSAS Emily Hobhouse. I wondered about this very English name among all the Afrikaaners. Emily Hobhouse was indeed born British. But identified with the Boers during a certain war. She deserved an equally incongruous Discworld persona.

 **(8)** to my story _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_.

 **(9)** Actually spoken by the guy at the other end of Rhodesia's existence from Cecil Rhodes: the other half of the portmanteau name, Rhodesia's last white leader who had to bow to the inevitable in 1980, Ian Smith. From his first speech when Rhodesia rebelled in 1965 and declared UDI from British colonial rule. Rhodes created the country; Smith had to preside over its ending.

 **(10)** to my Discworld Tarot short _**The King of Swords**_. There's a lot of backstory emerging here…

 **(11)** Again based on the impressions of Rhodesia garnered by British journalist Max Hastings, who is well worth reading on life in one of the last white colonies in Africa before it fell.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Leaving Rhodesia/Zimbabwe and entering South Africa proper: useful facts from Wikipedia and many ideas. Urabewe = Botswana?**

The **border** **between** **South Africa** **and** **Zimbabwe** is 225 kilometres (140 mi) long, [1] and follows the median line of the Limpopo River.[2]

The western tripoint with Botswana is located at the confluence of the Shashe River with the Limpopo. The location of the eastern tripoint with Mozambique is not entirely certain; it is situated either at the confluence of the Luvuvhu River with the Limpopo, or at a point nearby in the Limpopo defined by beacons on the Mozambique–Zimbabwe border.[3] The border was established by the Pretoria Convention of 1881 and restated by the London Convention of 1884 which defined the boundaries of the South African Republic (the Transvaal Republic).[2][3] The South African Republic subsequently became the Transvaal Colony and then part of the Union of South Africa, while north of the Limpopo Matabeleland became part of Southern Rhodesia which became Zimbabwe.

Border post at Beit Bridge

There is a single crossing at Beit Bridge, where the South African N1 highway and the Zimbabwean A6 highway are joined by the Alfred Beit Road Bridge. A separate bridge carries a railway line, which is connected to Pretoria in South Africa and to Rutenga and Bulawayo in Zimbabwe.

 _ **Beitbridge Rhodesia:**_

 **Beitbridge** or **Mzingwane** is a border town in the province of Matabeleland South, Zimbabwe. The name also refers to the border post and bridge spanning the Limpopo River, which forms the political border between South Africa and Zimbabwe.

The town lies just north of the Limpopo River about 1 km from the Alfred Beit Road Bridge which spans the Limpopo River between South Africa and Zimbabwe. The main roads lead from the border 321 km north-west to Bulawayo and 585 km north-east to Harare via Masvingo. According to the 2002 population census, the town had a population of 22,387 dominated by the local Venda people, who are also found across the international border in the Vhembe District of the Republic of South Africa. The Beitbridge border post is the busiest road border post in southern Africa, and is best avoided during busy border-crossing seasons.

The Alfred Beit Road Bridge is named after Alfred Beit, founder of the De Beers diamond mining company and business associate of Cecil Rhodes. He was also a director of a number of companies, among them the British South Africa Company and Rhodesia Railways. The original bridge was constructed in 1929 at a cost of $600,000 and financed jointly between the Beit Railways Trust and the South African Railways.[3] The new bridge was completed in 1995, and was officially opened on 24 November. It was built by the Zimbabwean Government, which now benefits from the tolls levied on crossings. The new bridge can accommodate much heavier traffic than the old one could, which is now for rail traffic only.

The major sources of local employment—freight, retail, construction, customs and the police—employ about 1,200 people. Informal sector activities—primarily vending and sex work—are as large as those in the formal sector, employing about 1,400. Outside Beitbridge town, farming is a major employer. A diamond mine recently closed, increasing unemployment and poverty. Most women rely on vending, sex work and cross-border trading for income. Truckers are present in the area with work coming from the border area of South Africa.

Beitbridge SA: **Beitbridge** (Afrikaans: _Beitbrug_ ) is a town in Musina Local Municipality in the Limpopo province of South Africa.

Beitbridge is a border crossing on the Limpopo River,[2] located just south of Beitbridge in Zimbabwe. It is the busiest border post in the region, handling as many as 500 trucks each day.[3] The bridge was named after mining financier Alfred Beit, who provided funds for its construction.[4]

Climate

Beitbridge has a hot desert climate (Köppen: _BWh_ ).

 _ **Summary: this place is a dump. You have been warned.**_

 **Pietermaritzburg** **– which became "Piemberg" in Tom Sharpe's novels and crossed with this name into my Discworld. Interesting Wikipedia article! Damn; it's in Natal which is further South. Need to clarify where Johanna and Mariella's home town actually** _ **is**_ **– owing to geographical haziness in some stories it's in the Transvaal, in some it's Natal. It's Transvaal (which no longer exists as an entity today) that has the Rhodesia/Zimbabwe border, though. And the Alfred Beit Bridge leading out. From Wikipedia: Zoning of "Piemberg" into rigidly racially segregated areas. Edendale township for blacks, Northdale for coloureds. A former name from when this was Zulu territory:** _ **Umgungundlovu**_ **, The Place where The Elephant Is Triumphant. In Zulu eyes, this is disputed territory – they want it back from the whites. Hmm.** **Past flashpoint even in our world for border clashes, in the days when our world had a Zulu Empire.**

 **Mariella to get more quietly excited the nearer home she gets, and the more veldt-familiar things become.**

 **Meanwhile Johanna gets a Guild assignment of her own. And can have a Take Our Daughters To Work Day.**

 **The two sisters will meet again in Piemberg.**

 **And there is a twist in the tail for Rivka when she is a guest at the Smith-Rhodes family plaas.**


	32. Welcome Home

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Two**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses are still travelling, but our tale finally draws near to its end.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Ember, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

 _From the journal of miss Rivka ben-Devorah (Black Widow House) Licenced Assassin._ Hi Johanna!

We're in your homeland now. What can I say? It is a strangely beautiful place of wild country interspersed with occasional farmsteads. The Boers, the farmers, are friendly people and hospitable and we are always assured of a bed and board for the night. Mariella repays the hospitality by helping out with farm chores – after my experience in Cenotia, I am capable of a few things too. It offers me a chance to practice my _Vondalaans,_ which arouses both amusement and a sort of appreciation. _Vondalaans_ with a Cenotian accent is a new thing.

Most of the farmers we stay with know _exactly_ who Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes is, and he is a very well respected man. We are sure the news is moving faster than we are – the "bush clacks", they call it - and your father and family are aware we are coming. Mariella is looking forward to arriving Home. Our adventures are a source of interest – the newspapers get out here too, eventually - and we have been telling the tales over various dinner tables at night. But Mariella still thinks it's good manners to repay their hospitality with a few hours' practical labour before we ride on. It's expected: boers help other boers.

With love and hoping to see you all soon

Rivka

* * *

 _ **The Guild of Assassins, Rimwards Howondaland Bureau, DeToit Straat, Pratoria, Gauteng, R.H.**_

Piet Retief was in his middle twenties now. One of the first Rimwards Howondalandians to graduate from the Assassins' School, he and his twin sister Heidi had returned Home to fulfil their National Service obligations. Heidi, inspired by the example of Sir Samuel Vimes' City Watch, was now a plainclothes detective with the National Police Force. She had elected to join the Watch as an acceptable alternative to the Army and as a means of evading the pressure on her, as a graduate Assassin, to enlist in BOSS. It meant she could work for the common good in a plainclothes investigating force that was, as far as these things were done, not politicised or ideological. A plainclothes police officer who got to investigate _necessary_ and _important_ things and who did the job in front of her **.(1).** It had even got her a ticket back to Ankh-Morpork to spend six months training under Sam Vimes, part of a deal brokered between the two nations.

Piet had done Regular Army service, left as a Captain, and had accepted an offer to front the Guild's bureau in his nation's capital city. It was, he reflected, a pretty good deal, and a pleasant career. It did attract a workload: and part of it was sitting in front of him now, quiet, respectful, and attentive, on the other side of his desk.

Retief smiled.

"Welcome Home, Mr Lensen." he said. "And I have to unreservedly congratulate you on making it here. Especially since your deeds on the route have been remarkable and reflect well on you. It all adds to the weight of positive reports the Guild has been receiving concerning you."

There was an offered handshake and a drink. Horst Lensen smiled with relief. He really hadn't been sure at all as to how he would be received here.

He had arrived possibly half an hour earlier with Suki van der Graaf. She had insisted on taking iconographs of the young hero arriving at his destination after a long and arduous ordeal. Horst wondered if he was the first Assassin student to do his Final Run with the Press in attendance. He also had no doubt whatsoever that it would be in the papers tonight.

And Suki was downstairs in the waiting room, making small-talk with the receptionist and leafing through copies of the Ankh-Morpork papers that arrived here, a few days late, as a courtesy thing.

"I regret I am in no position at present to give you the pink slip." Piet Retief continued, smoothly. "The Guild have asked me to delay that for a day or two while preparations are made for a very final interview."

Horst tried not to let the disappointment show. Another day or two, after everything that had transpired, was really no big deal.

"You are required to write down as full an account as possible of your journey and all the events that transpired." the Senior Assassin continued. "It doesn't have to be a final version or a formal dissertation; you can review and refine it later. Have you a place to stay? Miss Kliennevaal downstairs can advance you a daily expense rate to pay for food and lodging, or else you can submit receipts. We aren't unreasonable. Leave an address with her so you can be contacted, and we'll call you back for the very final interview in maybe two days. And, by the way, very well done."

Another handshake and everything was concluded, for now. Horst went to find Suki, who was fixing him up with somewhere to sleep for a day or two.

Piet Retief waited for a few minutes until he was sure Horst and Suki had left the building. Then he said

"I think you can come in now."

A connecting door opened and his former tutor, Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, came in from the next office. She had been quietly listening and observing. And judging.

"What do you think?" Retief asked. Johanna smiled slightly.

"Well, he's had his guava kicked. Hard and repeatedly. He's suffered. Shows in his face. But he's changed. No doubt about it."

She smiled again.

"Pity I've got to lie low for a day or two. It would have been nice to go and say hello to Suki and take her to lunch. But Guild business. Takes precedence. Shall we give him till Wednesday, do you think? Then I can administer his _absolutely_ final examination and it's all done with. After that I can call Olga or Irena and get a flight with them up to Piemberg."

Johanna smiled.

"Back to the hotel, I think. Round up Annaliese and the girls. Take everyone to Witwatersrand and get out of the city. I really don't want Suki finding out I'm here. Just yet."

"And your husband?" Piet asked, respectfully.

Johanna smiled.

"Ag. Wizards are wizards the world over. I'm just betting the University has a very big _braai_ , and they've fired up the furnace for a visitor from Unseen University. He's probably being force-fed lots of 'wois and brikkies. With a lekker beer."

Johanna and her family had arrived the previous day. She knew one set of travellers was in transit between Beitbridge and Piemberg; they weren't likely to arrive at the family _plaas_ much before Thursday. This suited her. The reunion with her sister and Rivka could wait till Guild business was concluded. Meanwhile Horst Lensen and Suki were on the commercial carpet flight that linked key points across the continent. Flying between New Scrote and Pratoria still took the greatest part of twenty-four hours.

Johanna and her family had the advantage of Pegasus, a towed flying carpet, and craw-stepping Feegle. Ensuring everyone was settled on the towed carpet and had been briefed as to what to expect, she and Bekki had the privilege of flying pillion with Olga Romanoff. Johanna appreciated being able to fly Pegasus. It was always fun to look down from the back of a flying horse. Except, of course, while in the dizzying non-location called Feegle Space where she insisted Bekki kept her eyes firmly closed. Even so, Bekki enthused about all the pretty colours and shapes. And _should_ a triangle have four sides, Mummy?

"Well, that makes it a _square_ , Bekki."

Bekki shook her head.

"It was still a _triangle_ , Mummy. I know, 'cos it told me so!"

The Feegle in the mane sniggered.

"Aye, she's a wee hag, alright! That was a Hag's answer if ever I heard one!"

Olga had smiled. Johanna had winced.

A discreet hotel welcomed them, and Johanna sighed at the realisation she might be best advised to be personally discreet and keep trips out to a minimum. She had no objections to her maid Eve taking time off to visit family in Hututo Township, however. Eve was here because a Rimwards Howondalandian lady of means and position _should_ have a servant. It would have looked odd otherwise. Eve was being put up in a segregated part of the hotel reserved for black employees.

Annaliese the nanny had been given guidebooks and cash and instructed to take Bekki and Famke on some nice trips out. Ponder had taken a local coach service to the fairly nearby University at Witwatersrand, to convey fraternal greetings from Unseen University to fellow Wizards. Which meant everyone was happy and had things to do. Good.

Johanna had called for a long cold drink and had settled down to read all the accumulated reports and accounts concerning Horst Lensen.

Piet Retief had been briefed, and had opened the Guild office on Saturday to receive her and discuss strategy for resolving the Lensen business.

And then Horst and Suki arrived on the Sunday morning.

* * *

 _ **Piemberg, the Transvaal, Rimwards Howondaland.**_

"Yuk!" said Rivka-ben-Devorah. Her nose crinkled.

Riding next to her, Mariella Smith-Rhodes agreed.

"Definitely yuk." she said. "Now you draw my ettention to it. If you are from here, it is like the Enkh. You get used to it. Thet's the Piemberg smell of the Jojo Ebbatoir. From this side, the wind cerries it."

"The Jojo Abbatoir and Petfoods - and Servant - Meats Cannery." **(2)** Rivka said. "But I can't see much of a town yet?"

"You can't. From here. The smell cerries a long way. You know how Professor Rincewind says he knows he's home when he cen smell the City?"

"Yes…" Rivka said.

"We from Piemberg feel the same way ebout the Jojo. Trust me."

They rode on in silence. They had got up before dawn so as to get a good start.

"Listen. If we go through Piemberg town, Home is forty miles away. But if we cut ecross country somewhere ebout here, we cen cut it to twenty-five. Piemberg we cen save for enother day."

"OK." Rivka said. The landscape had its own unique attractiveness to it, certainly. The distant mountains were called the Drakensbergs, apparently. But everywhere around her at present, once you were off the road, looked pretty much like everywhere else. There was potential here for getting hopelessly lost in a wilderness.

"Look, I'm from here." Mariella said, excitedly. "I learnt to ride here. To trek. It's like the beck of my hand."

"Yes. But you're wearing gloves." Rivka pointed out.

Mariella impatiently tugged her riding gloves off and stowed them.

Then she spurred her horse off the road, onto what looked like an unpromising course into the wild.

"We can be home by late efternoon." She called. "I hev a feeling they're helf-expecting us, enyway!"

Rivka shrugged, and followed.

"I cen show you places like the Grasskop, Gods' Window end the Rondavels!" Mariella called. "They're on the route. You cennot get lost here!"

 _Ah well. It's her country_ , thought Rivka. She reached down to check her waterskins and waterbottles were full. Just in case.

* * *

Horst Lensen, in the event, had gratefully accepted the daily subsistence rate the Guild was prepared to pay for accommodation and food. He was actually sleeping on the sofa at Suki van der Graaf's.

Suki worked irregular hours in her job and was never back until after ten most nights, sometimes sleeping in late in the morning. Horst welcomed this. Oh, she was attractive, in her way, but was related to Mariella, which was a consideration. And he sensed he'd be politely rebuffed if he were daft enough to try. Besides, he appreciated sleeping indoors in relative comfort. He appreciated her friendliness and hospitality but knew there wasn't anything else there. This made him feel relieved. He frowned. A former version of himself, in close proximity to a fairly attractive woman, would have made some sort of clumsy pass just on principle, as any self-respecting bro should. Now he found the thought embarrassing. His mind considered several humiliating and inevitably humbling outcomes, and he winced inside.

 _Is this growing up?_ he wondered. _Boring, but probably necessary._

It allowed him time to sit with pen and paper and to get his impressions of his journey down on paper. Mr Retief had said he'd be happy with a rough draft that covered all the points, for now, so long as he tidied it up later for the final version. Apparently, this was a required assignment for everybody who'd been directed to do the Extra Year. Their accounts got professionally printed up and lodged in the Dark Library, as a resource to others who might follow on the same roads. He'd read a couple: the one by Lucinda Rust, concerning her Howondalandian odyssey, was heavily marginally annotated with sarcastic comment by her former teachers and was popular for its comedy value **.(3)** He winced; would his get the same treatment? Better write it honestly, then, and put some thought into it. He tried to put wistful thoughts about Mariella out of his head. _We've left school. We're in the same country. But that's as far as it goes. Perhaps our paths will cross once in a blue moon and we'll talk politely, say it was nice to see you again and don't be a stranger, and then go back to our respective lives. So it goes. Insh'Offler._

He sighed and wished Timothy Bellamy the best of luck. Tim was indeed a nice guy. Infectiously nice. Decent. Hard to dislike. Even if he stood a better chance with Mariella. _Give him a couple of years to grow up a bit…_

And the account on paper got as far as the shaming business of being enslaved in Klatch. _Damn. How do I approach the business with Lady Miriam? What do I say about her?_

And the written account grew another page longer. At least Mr Retief had said he could write a more polished and revised version later on, for publication. That kind of implied that there actually _was_ going to be a "later". The Guild could still fail him. But maybe "fail" might even mean "still alive to walk away and do something else." Horst Lensen fervently hoped so.

He carried on writing. It was something to do.

* * *

Rivka jumped in her seat. Her horse whinnied. Mariella signaled for them to halt and be still. Rivka watched her friend reach into a pouch and withdraw one of the last of the explosive Devices they'd carried since Cenotia.

Then she watched, even more intently, twenty or thirty large monkeys, the largest almost human-sized, descending the hillside and crossing in front of them, some seventy or eighty yards away.

One or two of the outlying scouts looked their way and expressed mild interest, then appeared to perform the simian equivalent of a shrug and moved on.

Mariella returned the undeployed Device to her pouch. They waited for the chittering and whooping to fade into silence, and she signaled to ride on.

"Phalange of baboons." Mariella explained. "We heve en errangement. We leave them elone, they leave us elone. Seems to work."

"Vicious things, aren't they?" Rivka asked. Mariella shrugged.

"The ones who ended up in Hide Park hed no reason to love people." she replied. "They were starved, engry, confined to cages, end hed not seen the best of the human race. Of course they fought. Here. You leave them elone. They tend to leave you elone. Hed they shown threat, I would hev thrown this Device. Not to injure them but to scare them. Loud noises elarm them end drive them eway."

"And if that hadn't worked?" Rivka asked. "What then?"

Mariella grinned.

"Simple. We throw them the lest of the food retions in our seddlebegs. They stop to eat, we gellop like Hell."

Rivka relaxed. Riding with a local guide who knew the country was reassuring.

Mariella smiled. She decided not to tell Rivka about the fresh lion spoor, which was probably the reason why the baboon troop was moving quickly away and wasn't inclined to stop and say hello. If no lions showed, then fine. No need to tell her.

They rode on.

* * *

 _ **The Guild of Assassins, Rimwards Howondaland Bureau, DeToit Straat, Pratoria, Gauteng, R.H.**_

"Well, we're here again!" Suki van der Graaf said, gaily.

She took Horst's hand and smiled reassuringly.

"Good luck. I'll be here, downstairs. If you don't come out, I'll get it in every paper I can. Bad publicity for them, and they know it!"

"Thank you." Horst said, sincerely. His heart was racing and he tried to calm himself.

He abstractly noticed there were other people in the waiting room: a plump good-natured looking blonde girl who was nursing a child, a little girl of slightly less than two years. Her accent was odd, Horst noted. She was speaking something like _Vondalaans_ to the child, but it was odd, strangely accented, sounding archaic, old, like the Kerrigian spoken in church on Octeday to lend gravitas to the service. But it wasn't properly Kerrigian, either. A mystery.

"Mr Lensen? They're ready for you now. Please go to the upstairs office." Said the receptionist. She smiled a brittle professional smile.

"Please remain in the waiting room, Miss van der Graaf. _Dankie_."

Suki smiled at him again.

"Good luck!" she said, then impulsively hugged him and kissed him on the cheek."

" _What a story!"_ she breathed, as Horst took his first step up. A simple flight of stairs now felt like the longest and most lonely walk in the world. Suki watched him go, then went to make small-talk with the girl who was tending to the child, curious to know why she was here. She didn't _look_ as if she was seeking a Guild contract. A girl and a child was a homely touch that was somewhat out of place in Assassins' Guild offices.

* * *

"So when exactly were you intending to warn me there are _lions_ here?" Rivka asked, pointedly. She sought to soothe her horse, which was showing signs of alarm.

Mariella shrugged.

"Ag, they come with the territory. Nothing to get concerned ebout. We're downwind of them, for one thing, end they're more interested in stalking those elands."

They watched the nearby lions, a small pride who were apparently interested in a venison dinner.

Mariella sighed, contentedly. Rivka thought how much she reminded her of Johanna right now. It was slightly disconcerting.

"You only ever get to see half the story in the Zoo. This is the real thing."

"Can we move on sometime soon?" Rivka urged.

* * *

Horst Lensen paused at the door with the plaque that said **"Ankh-Morpork Guild of Assassins. Bureau chief, Mr P.D.F. Retief, ."**

A male voice called to him to enter. He walked in, taking calming breaths.

Then he saw Piet Retief was leaning on the wall by the window. And he recognized the person sitting behind the desk _immediately_.

"Ma'am? I am here." he said, following the accepted form.

"So I see." Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes replied, drily. "Step forward, Mr Lensen. This is the very final stage of your Final Examination to determine your fitness to graduate as a Licenced Assassin. The Guild has considered your case and unique circumstances, and has appointed me as your Final Examiner. Exam conditions now apply. Mr Retief is present as a witness and as Assistant Examiner. You are fully aware of the implications and of the procedure for the final Examination and you will affirm you are here of your own free will?"

Johanna scrutinized him carefully.

"I confirm I am here of my own free will. And I accept your judgement unquestioningly, ma'am."

She nodded.

There was a noise from another part of the room. Horst's eyes swiveled to the right.

He saw a little girl of about five or six, with red hair and a disconcertingly familiar look, who was intent on a colouring book and fixed on a page in tongue-slightly-out intense concentration, seeking to keep the crayon inside the lines.

Johanna smiled slightly.

"Not ideal, I know. But I've asked her to keep quiet while we go about this."

She picked up a card from the desk and held it up. Horst knew about exam procedure and gratefully grasped the familiar.

"Identify this symbol, Mr Lensen. In your own time."

Horst gulped with relief.

"It is Guild of Artificers' warning sign for explosive devices in transit, ma'am. It identifies the specific exothermic alchemy compound as being nitroglycerine bound in Agatean Clay, and says it may be carried by cart or railway wagon if in protective cases.."

"Correct." Johanna said, Retief made a tick on a clipboard.

"Now this one?"

Two more common signs were held up and successfully identified.

Johanna smiled briefly.

"Now the optional fourth question of the _vivat voce_ , Mr Lensen. I require you to give an objective response based on your teaching in political and social science. _Not_ the one expected of you as a Rimwards Howondalandian citizen. The question is this. Do you consider that apartheid as a social system in this country is not likely to last, and that change will be forced upon Rimwards Howondaland? I repeat. Consider the question objectively and answer as an Assassin. Go ahead. You may speak freely."

Horst gulped. They really were putting him through it, then.

"Ma'am. The official answer we are all taught is correct, is that apartheid is necessary at this stage in our nation's development, and that one day things may change and allow an educated black class to arise and take more of a role in our land. But that day is not yet and may not be so for a long time."

He paused.

"That is the official line, anyway. But recent experience and what I saw for myself in Smith-Rhodesia is leading me to doubt. Until recent events and personal experiences gave me a degree of insight into what it is to be treated as if there were no distinction between myself and a black person. This was shaming and instructive. I now understand there are many people in this country who doubt if the policy is correct. And their numbers are growing. Pressure to change our society will not come from the blacks. But from white people. It is no secret that the Bureau of State Security has offered me a career. A year ago I would have accepted instantly. Today. I fear I would be of no use to them. Rather than track down and monitor subversive and liberal opinions, I rather believe I am infected with them myself. And that's your answer, ma'am. I can't be the only one who doubts. BOSS can only keep a lid on the kettle for so long before they go up in pink mist. Maybe not in our time, or…." his eyes flickered over to Bekki, still engrossed in her coluring book. "..in your daughter's time. But that time is coming. And when it does it will come quickly."

Johanna smiled.

"I will accept that as an answer, Mr Lensen." she said. "And a considered one. Thank you."

She stood up.

"You have your weapons, Mr Lensen. Good. There now only remains the final test of all."

She indicated a door.

"Through there, Mr Lensen. We will follow. In your own time, without undue haste or hesitation."

Horst gulped again. He considered the door. He elected to open it with care, standing not directly in front but to one side. He distantly heard Johanna saying "Mummy's busy right now. _Stay in here_ , Bekki!" it added an incongruous note.

He slipped carefully inside. His examiners followed. He scanned the room. It was made up as a bedroom. A covered body, in a bed. That was the client, then.

He lifted the over-and-under crossbow that Rivka ben-Devorah had loaned him. She had said something mysterious about "you may need an extra bolt." He recalled both Rivka and Mariella had had to do this as their final test. Maybe Rivka was hinting at something…. And neither had gone into detail about this stage of their Final Run. There was a convention that graduates did not talk to students about this part of the Exam. Ever.

Then he looked round the room, and realized. They made it clear if you took the time and trouble to _really_ look. They were fair that way.

With no hesitation, he levelled the crossbow and put a very powerful bolt into the door of a walk-in wardrobe that was slightly open and ajar. Rivka ben-Devorah selected very good weapons.

Then he put the second bolt into the seeming body in the bed.

The closet door swung open. A second human-sized dummy was stuck to the back of the door, pinned there by the crossbow bolt. The dummy in the bed jerked under the impact of a bolt through the approximate heart.

His examiners looked at each other, and nodded. Johanna asked for the clipboard. Retief passed it to her, his face impassive.

Then she was writing something.

Horst Lensen tried not to let the relief show too much as she passed him a pink slip.

"It appears that you have passed the Examination, Mr Lensen. You are now a Licenced Assassin. Congratulations."

"You worked it out." Retief said, his voice betraying appreciation.

"It wasn't _too_ difficult." Horst said. "Everybody knows the body in the bed is a dummy. You can't keep that a secret. So you build little surprises and new twists into it. I thought – too easy. What if the client knew an Assassin was on the way, put a dummy in the bed, and was hiding in the wardrobe? He'd wait for me to fire my only shot, then shoot back at me from hiding. And the wardrobe was the only place to hide. The room's too bare and you can see under the bed. So I shot through the wardrobe door. And just in case I was wrong, a second shot at the body in the bed."

Johanna smiled.

"You know the examiner can't discuss the specifics with the candidate." She said. "But let me just say the reports we were getting about you suggested adversity can bring out the well-hidden best in somebody. And people whose opinions I respect put in good reports. A gentleman called Hans Dreyer, for instance, who really thinks he can make something of you. He sent a personal recommendation. It was worth investigating."

She smiled again.

"And you _do_ have the option now of calling me "Johanna". I prefer that to "ma'am", which frankly makes me sound about fifty. I suggest we wrap things up here and I take you to lunch? And Suki. I know she's downstairs, and she's probably worked out by now that the girl with the peculiar accent is my childrens' nanny. So I can't be far away."

Horst Lensen smiled. Things could have been so much worse.

* * *

Mariella had half-expected it.

Her father glowered down from a far greater height, scowling through his beard. He slapped a bundle of newspapers in front of her face.

"So what do you call _this_ , then, meisie?" he demanded. "And _this_! And THIS!"

Mariella tried not to look amused.

"Do you think we do not _worry_ , meisie?" Barbarossa demanded. "That we do not care for you? Or about you?"

Then he softened, rage fading.

"Ag. It only ever used to be _Johanna_ I'd shout at like this, whenever she deigned to come home." he said. "Now it seems there are _two_ of you."

He threw the newspapers down, his point made, and a massive bear-hug managed to engulf Mariella and Rivka at once.

"Welcome home, daughter! I'm bloody _proud_ of you!"

Mariella hugged back. This made it all seem worthwhile.

* * *

 _ **To be continued….**_

 **(1)** Piet and Heidi Retief are incidental characters in my story _**The Graduation Class**_.

 **(2)** A location in Tom Sharpe's Piemberg farces about South African life. If I borrowed Sharpe's Piemberg and have taken it to the Discworld, the Jojo – a place in a hot country dealing with extremely old meat produce – has to be here too. Sharpe's hapless policemen have to search its raw material for a possible (human) body. It's as horrible as it sounds.

 **(3)** Extensively quoted in my tale _**Bungle In The Jungle**_ , along with marginalia from such knowledgeable critics as Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Ruth N'Kweze.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Interesting points raised in reader PM's… thanks to bissek and Brainarius for raising interesting points!**

Q:- The first Pegasus riders may be Watchwitches, but having them do mail delivery while not affiliated with the Post Office sounds like a problem. Was Moist consulted on that matter?

Possible A:- Point taken! Where I said "delivering the mail" I should have been less sloppy and specified "to escort the Diplomatic Bag" – the private and secure communications of an Embassy or Consulate which by convention are inviolable, do not go through the regular mail, are exempt from Customs and which – in theory – remain private and secret. Intercepting them in transit is not thought of as being acceptable behaviour. Or at least, getting caught while Intercepting a Diplomatic Bag in transit is not thought of as being acceptable behaviour. The guest nation is obliged not to bring in anything that might raise eyebrows, break the host nation's law (or accepted international law) or to use it for smuggling purposes, for instance. This happens too: the machine-gun used to kill a London policewoman by a Libyan diplomat arrived in the diplomatic bag, for instance… British Embassies in places like Saudi Arabia use the Diplomatic Bag to import home comforts like alcoholic spirits, which are illegal by local law and would otherwise incur punishment. There's a whole episode of " _ **Yes, Prime Minister**_ " that deals with this… (where a British Prime Minister gets pissed as a rat whilst on an official visit to a hardline Arab country). It's safe to say that it's not unusual for a Diplomatic Bag to be shipping-container sized.

And private messengers not belonging to the Post Office are routinely used to ferry letters and verbal messages in between home governments and diplomats/other agents abroad.

The Pegasus Service having dropped into the city's lap by happy accident and a Gorgon with a bloody nose, combined with the only people who can ride them being Witches, and the only people who can give orders to Feegle, who have the secret of the craw-step, being witches.. too good for Vetinari not to exploit. Ephebe might be able to get new Pegasii by finding somebody suicidally brave enough to punch a Gorgon on the nose…. But could they find Feegle?

Moist von Lipwig might be pragmatic enough to, for instance, suggest that just to cover them, each Pegasus pilot does the Postman's Walk to admit them to the Ancient and Fraternal Order; but Tulliver Groat mightwell approve of long-distance airmail pilots (of a sort) who get there despite all the odds…

Q:- No offense, but given the ship prefix HAMMS, the first two names that come to mind are Andbacon and Witheggs.

Possible A:- No offense taken! You know, I'm kicking myself for not having thought of this one and – with a credit to you – I will use this idea. It's EXACTLY the way the average Ankh-Morporkian person in the street would read the ship prefix HAMMS. (Which is another inconvenient-to-Sam Vimes hangover from when Ankh-Morpork had kings: the designation His/Her Ankh Morprokian Majesty's Ship…. Ham And Eggs with a Fried Slice, Hold The Mushrooms And Could I Have A Black Burnt Crunchy Sausage. )

Q:- One problem with naming warships after women is the simple fact that by definition no men get similar honors - and with Assassins at least women are a distinct minority among their membership, so that means that a not particularly talented lady Assassin could get tapped because they need to use someone's name, and there isn't a large enough pool of candidates to allow them to be picky, while every male Assassin gets snubbed by default. And the Assassins would be the only guild to get its own warship class with ships named after members, causing conflict between guilds. Weapons, places and virtues (They already have a _Prid of Ankh-Morpork_ , after all) are less controversial. Best save personal names for noteworthy individuals who are safely retired or dead.

Possible A:- good point. Can warships or indeed any other vessel be named after currently living people? Never thought of that. British monarchs or royalty, certainly. And the American convention is that every President, living or dead, gets a USS, usually an aircraft carrier. There's a _USS Ronald Reagan_ , for instance, and very possibly by now a _USS William J. Clinton._ No doubt plans are afoot for a _USS Barack Obama_. (some people will allege it was built at a shipyard in Kenya, I suppose). Except for Jimmy Carter: as a former submarine officer, he got the unique distinction of a nuclear sub. Horrible thought: one day there'll be a _USS Donald Trump_. Ouch. Apparently the _USS Gerald Ford_ is accident-prone, and crashed into the dockside on its maiden voyage. Probably trying to chew gum and go full steam ahead at the same time.

Maybe there'll be _a HMS Margaret Thatcher_ one day. God knows how it will do turns. Especially to port.

There really don't seem to be too many hard-and-fast rules about naming ships. Each maritime nation has its own loose conventions and often contradictory "guidelines" which aren't so much codified as evolved over many years. There's no bar on naming ships after living people, for instance (ie American aircraft carriers named after retired Presidents) and in Royal Navy service, warships named for people tend to be named after men although this is not absolute. Japanese ships are almost always (but again not absolutely) _something-Maru._

South Africa certainly named lots of its Navy vessels after eminent ladies.

I've only discovered two absolutely iron-fast inflexible universal rules: there will never, ever, absolutely not, be another ship called the _Titanic_ as the general opinion is that one was enough; and that in print, the name of any ship _**must**_ be italicised.

 _Boaty McBoatface_ is out, too.

The _Assassin_ -class for fast deadly warships will only be the first, I think… but if Ankh-Morpork follows British Royal Navy convention in this, the A-Class destroyers should all have names beginning with "A". _HAMMS_ _Alice Band._ And, err….

Advocates of the new ships will soon discover that a steamship may be fast, but out at sea it's only as good as the amount of coal it can stow. When that's gone, it's gone. Hence in the 1850's, the Royal Navy absolutely insisted that its first steam-driven craft had the full complement of masts so that they could still make sail in the good old way as a fall-back position. A steam-driven fleet needs logistic back-up. Otherwise they can only get so far from a home port before they have to turn back. I see a necessary support fleet of coalers, carrying nothing but coal as cargo, supporting the steam destroyers? This support class might be named for some other Guild, maybe the Miners and Coalmen…(transferring coal at sea between two ships. Interesting problem.)

A hospital ship called the _HAMMS John Lawn_ , for instance. Or the _HAMMS Doctor Whiteface,_ far bigger on the inside than on the outside like a clown car… an experimental vessel armed with custard-pie throwers… Repair/depot ships named for the Artificers' guild. The Guild of Sailors needs attention too. Would all fighting sailors have to be Guild members – and therefore could they go on strike?

You're right: Vetinari might see the ego-flattering advantages of ships called the _HAMMS Ronald Rust,_ the _HAMMS Bernard Selachii_ , the _HAMMS Donald Downey_ , et c… especially if they can be bamboozled into paying for them…

Q:- Problem with bringing cannons to Ankh-Morpork - a musket is just a scaled-down cannon, so what will prevent artificers from reinventing the gonne?

Possible A:- _**Men At Arms**_ (1993) dealt with gonnes. _**Interesting Times**_ (1994) introduced the Barking Dogs, artillery pieces in every respect save name. It's possible Terry never even saw the essential contradiction involved or made the link – one is essentially a far larger version of the other.

I had a go at this one in a short called _**Gonne but not Forgotten**_ – especially given the Japanese thing for miniaturisation, it must have occurred to somebody in Agatea! Maybe they just wrote an official poem about it…

Q:- Does Discworld have line-crossing ceremonies? Something the girls might be subjected to on their trip home.

Possible A:- Never thought of this! Crossing the line does depend on there being an Equator. Hard to find one on a Discworld. What would the local version be? Stumped at the moment.

Q:- The advancement in cannon technology described here is going to lead to guns in the Discworld eventually after Vetinari dies. Maybe arquebusses? Da Quirm's design was a revolver rifle, way too advanced for the Renaissance era tech of the Disc.

Non-definitive A:- I had a go at this one in a short called _**Gonne but not Forgotten**_ – especially given the Japanese thing for miniaturisation, it must have occurred to somebody in Agatea! Maybe they just wrote an official poem about it…

 **Pietermaritzburg** **– which became "Piemberg" in Tom Sharpe's novels and crossed with this name into my Discworld. Interesting Wikipedia article! Damn; it's in Natal which is further South. Need to clarify where Johanna and Mariella's home town actually** _ **is**_ **– owing to geographical haziness in some stories it's in the Transvaal, in some it's Natal. It's Transvaal (which no longer exists as an entity today) that has the Rhodesia/Zimbabwe border, though. And the Alfred Beit Bridge leading out. From Wikipedia: Zoning of "Piemberg" into rigidly racially segregated areas. Edendale township for blacks, Northdale for coloureds. A former name from when this was Zulu territory:** _ **Umgungundlovu**_ **, The Place where The Elephant Is Triumphant. In Zulu eyes, this is disputed territory – they want it back from the whites. Hmm.** **Past flashpoint even in our world for border clashes, in the days when our world had a Zulu Empire.**

 **Mariella to get more quietly excited the nearer home she gets, and the more veldt-familiar things become.**

 **Meanwhile Johanna gets a Guild assignment of her own. And can have a Take Our Daughters To Work Day.**

 **The two sisters will meet again in Piemberg.**

 **And there is a twist in the tail for Rivka when she is a guest at the Smith-Rhodes family plaas.**


	33. loose ends ravel together

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Three. Destination.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **Our Princesses still have a very little way to travel, but as their journey ends, the rest of their lives begin.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Early Ick, in The Year of The Determined Squirrel.**_

Two girls sat in the grass atop a rocky promontory and looked out to sea. Waves crashed on the beach several hundred feet below. On the near horizon was Gogga Island, the location of the most feared and oppressive high-security prison in the country. Nobody escaped from Gogga Island. There really wasn't anywhere to escape to, for one thing.

The thing about the horizon here, the two observers noted, was that there was comparatively little of it. What there was resolved itself in a continual multi-coloured hue and the sight was both beautiful and frightening. As was the muted distant roar reaching them, even though it was reaching them from well over a hundred miles away. It was possible to sail boats out there; there was enough open sea to permit this. But they had to be good experienced sailors who knew what they were doing, given the fierce currents and the continual tug outwards caused by the ever-present Rimfall.

"So, what now?" Mariella Smith-Rhodes asked.

Rivka-ben-Devorah looked out towards the Rimfall.

"We _could_ take a boat out. Get as close as we can." she said, speculatively.

Mariella considered this.

"Or else we _could_ go beck to Jacarinthia House. Heve dinner with Uncle Charles end Lady Mary end listen carefully to whetever propositions he puts to us. You know. Jobs. _Careers_."

There was another long pause.

Rivka and Mariella were now on the most Rimwards point of the continent that one girl called Klatch and the other girl called Howondaland. It depended on which end of it you'd been born on. It had been their goal since graduating from the Assassins' School nearly seventeen long months before and arriving in Cenotia. To get from one end of the continent to the other by the best available route.

And now they were here. It was variably called Cape Agony, Cape Terror, Cape Needles, and many other descriptive terms.

It was the last and most Rimwards of several capes and peninsulas on the coast of Rimwards Howondaland. They were known to sailors the Disc over as Cape _Warning, Cape Last Reminder to Turn Back Now, Cape Don't Say You Weren't Warned, Cape Don't Go There!,_ and here, simply, _Cape Terror_. Down there was Caarp Bay, so named because fish struggling to escape the Rimfall thought it was a safe haven.

Caarp Town had been founded by pragmatic and somewhat lazy fishermen. Its seafood was legendary.

And the city of Caarp Town stretched out to both sides of Cape Terror. Its sheltered bays hosted maritime enterprises that ventured out to both the major Seas. The Smith-Rhodes family had a Turnwise and a Widdershins maritime division that ventured in both directions without needing to perform the hazardous passage of the Cape even _once._ It had been another of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes' insights: if it was needed, it was cheaper to unload a ship in the Widdershins port, freight the cargo overland, and reload it to a different ship on the Turnwise side. He didn't lose any expensive vessels to shipwreck, for one thing.

The Smith-Rhodes family, or at least its senior branch, had continued to get both rich and influential and had settled in Caarp Town. Here, in the oldest and most settled part of the nation. Mariella's junior and socially disregarded branch of the family, by comparison, farmed the uncertain and war-threatened border country, quite a long way away.

Rivka had to admit that the mansion at Jacarinthia House could rival any of the grand houses in Ankh-Morpork for opulence and conspicuous affluence. Then again, Charles Smith-Rhodes was exceedingly rich. And powerful.

As she was currently a house-guest at Jacarinthia House, Rivka had no problems with this. Whatsoever. She felt she could stand this. Indefinitely, if need be.

Rivka indicated the ornate monument topped with yet another statue of Sir Cecil Smith-Rhodes, posed as looking contemplatively out to sea as if challenging the very Rimfall itself. A symbolic line stretched from the base of the statue to the head of the promontory, in darker stone against paler masonry.

"How did they know?" she mused. "I mean, it's all water out there and it all looks the same. And it sloshes around a lot. It's not as if somebody can draw a line along the top of it and say, right, everything on _this_ side is the mighty Widdershins Ocean. And everything on _that_ side of the line is the equally mighty Turnwise Ocean. Are we clear on this? Good, let's move on."

Mariella considered this.

"Well, it helps thet this is elso where the Dimwell Meridian was drawn out of Enkh-Morpork. Where it reaches the Rim. People who draw meps are notoriously anal-retentive. Perheps they wanted a two-for-one. Not only the baseline for calculating where you are on the Disc. Let's hev it dividing the oceans in two, es well."

They watched the Rimfall for a while. It was scary and majestic and beautiful. It dominated the horizon and scintillating light was carried up into the sky like a massive random rainbow. It was testimony to the turbulent water out there, the death of ships and the untamed power of the Disc's oceans.

"I know it all slops off." Rivka said. "But it must get back on somehow. Or we'd be getting fairly dry by now."

"Esk Ponder." Mariella said. "He studies this. The short enswer is it all falls off and then it falls beck on egain **." (1)**

It was an afternoon to be lazy. They'd packed drinks and food. All the time in the world, here at the end of the world.

"Apparently sailors have a custom. It's weird. The first time anyone aboard ship passes Cape Terror and the Dimwell Meridian, they have a "crossing the line" party."

"Elways esssuming the ship doesn't sink or get dregged over the Edge." Mariella said.

"You get to drag up as Lady Libertina, Goddess of the Sea. But that's sailors for you. And drink a lot of rum. Must be sheer relief."

Mariella considered this. She asked what women get to drag up as.

Rivka shrugged.

"There must be _something_." **(2)**

They carried on having a lazy afternoon. They'd got to the end, after all. The long and eventful crossing of an entire continent.

"So how are you getting on with, _errr_?" Mariella inquired.

Rivka took her time in replying.

"And how are _you_ getting on with, _errr_?" she asked, pointedly.

But they didn't let this spoil a perfect afternoon.

* * *

 _ **Some weeks earlier. The Smith-Rhodes plaas, Piemberg. Ember shades into December, in The Year of the Bewildered Racoon.**_

The reunion with her parents had been good. Father had welcomed both the travellers with open arms – eventually – and Mother had quietly expressed her pleasure concerning seeing her youngest daughter again. She asked about that pleasant young man Timothy Bellamy, such a decent young man and a credit to his mother, how is she? Ag, she can make green things grow. Such a talent to have.

Mariella accepted the sub-text and the spill question placidly. It was enough to be Home.

After settling into a shared bedroom, she took Rivka on a tour of the plaas.

"Three farmhouses?" Rivka asked. With a practiced eye, she noted the way the three linked farmsteads were close enough to allow for mutual defence and overlapping fields of fire, should it be necessary. Other things were present, like an inobtrusively deep ditch that would be an obstacle to any attackers, and a high fence on an embankment just to make it more difficult and channel any attacking force into approach routes that could, for eg, draw down a lot of crossbow fire.

"The original one is the one my grendparents built when they inherited here." Mariella explained. "Father inherited. Got the plaas. That one's my brother Andreas end his femily. He'll inherit efter Father. They needed a plaas of their own. Built one. The third is my sister Agnetha end her husband end children. So we built enother. Agnetha's husband Kurt is my father's main man here."

She regarded the clacks tower.

" _Thet's_ new. Never seen it before. We hed a signal beacon. If the Zulus ettecked, we lit the beacon. To raise the elerm. I suppose you cen do the same with the clecks these days. Wonder if Vatti's got goblins?"

"Uncle Charles paid a lot to get the clacks to this country?" Rivka prompted her.

"Ja. End Johanna invested a lot. I'm just _betting_ she made sure this plaas got a clecks link. Oh, hei, Gottfried!"

Rivka tried not to stare at the light-skinned black man who was walking two Ridgeback dogs. Especially at the fiery red hair he had.

"Hei. You're home!" he replied, without a hint of subservience. The conversation switched to _Vondalaans_. Rivka listened, appreciating her lessons in the language.

Mariella smiled. They shook hands.

"They said the young baas-lady was on her way back home." Gottfried remarked. Mariella stooped to get to know the dogs. They talked pedigrees and lineages for a while. Rivka gathered that Gottfried was knowledgeable and skilled in dog breeding and management and ran the family kennels.

"So where's the old man?" Mariella asked. "I want to talk to him."

Gottfried shrugged.

"Which old man? Mr Barbarossa's down at the cattlepens. If you mean the old fart, he's up country with some Caarpies." he said. "He'll be pleased to see you, though."

Rivka frowned. In the heart of apartheid country, this was a black guy – well, _part_ black, anyway – who showed no subservience and was informally treated as an equal? She wondered about the _part_ black thing, and tried not to stare too hard at his hair.

Gottfried indicated her.

"And your friend?"

"She's new round here." Mariella said, shrugging. Introductions were made.

"Oh, another Cenotian." Gottfried said, as if this were no big deal. "You'll be staying with the rest, then? They're being put up in the guesthouses."

"Huh?" Rivka said.

"The _rest_ of them?" Mariella said.

"Mr Barbarossa hasn't told you yet? They'll all be out on the land this time of day. You can get to meet them later. Odd people, Cenotians."

He explained. Mariella and Rivka digested this.

"Got to move on. Dogs getting restless."

"If you see the old fart before I do, tell him I want a word." Mariella said.

"Ah-huh. I'm guessing it might be about Urabewe? Couple of girls there look a bit like me, I'm told. Never met them."

Gottfried walked on, the dogs following.

Rivka gave her friend a questioning look. Mariella made a gesture halfway between a shrug and a wince.

"We don't talk about it. But everybody knows. Officially, Gottfried _isn't_ related to me. Important point. _Un_ officially, Uncle Baal had a lot of questions to answer. Let's say Gottfried gets a few privileges. Strictly unofficially."

"Like being able to call a Smith-Rhodes an old fart?" Rivka asked. "Despite his skin colour. And possibly because of the hair colour?"

"Don't mention the hair." Mariella said. " _Really_ don't. Gottfried is not my cousin in eny legal or ecknowledged or official way _at all._ The fe ct Father gives him a few privileges is coincidental. He's just really good with the dogs."

"I can see it would be a big deal in this country." Rivka said, thoughtfully. "Your Uncle Baal got exiled, didn't he?"

"Femily emberrassment. Father spoke to Uncle Charles. Things were egreed. Long story."

The tour took in the dog-kennels. Mariella exchanged greetings with young cousins who were tending the dogs. They were pleased to see her but took in her arrival with no great sense of drama.

"We keep a peck." she explained to Rivka. "Some we sell, some we keep. Good for security. Es you've noticed, we get the odd lion or leopard prowling eround. Ective deterrent."

She spotted her father, who was stalking round the farm-buildings taking in his domain. She nodded and walked over to him. Rivka followed.

"Vatti? We've just heard about the Cenotians?"

Barbarossa looked slightly sheepish.

"Ah. Yes. Slipped my mind. I was meaning to tell you. Happened a month or so after your exploit in Cenotia. Man, you two meisies stirred a few things up!"

Barbarossa had been following the accounts of the kibbutz system and letters from the girls with professional interest. It had occurred to him that a bunch of well-meaning but inept people trying to set up agricultural enterprises from scratch, with no previous experience, needed a lot of hands-on professional guidance. Besides, there were always jobs to be down about the plaas. So he'd put an idea to Cousin Charles. You know, just to see if he was interested. Why not, in the spirit of international friendship, invite some of those keen but untrained young Cenotians _here_ , put them up in farms, give them training and experience? I provide bed and board, they get to see the agricultural year first hand, they go home with training and skills? I get labour, _you_ get to present it as international co-operation, building close ties to an ally?

Charles Smith-Rhodes had presented the idea to political associates, the Cenotians had expressed an interest, and various farms in Rimwards Howondaland were now hosting agricultural students from Cenotia.

"You know. So they go back to their kibbutz with experience, training and ideas. Prevents the sort of thing you ended up having to do. Got to say I was impressed with how well you did, though."

They walked past what Rivka recognised as a crossbow range on the edge of the farm. Crudely painted targets had been erected showing charging Zulu warriors. They were peppered with quite a lot of holes.

"Keep meaning to add a few Klatchians." Barbarossa remarked. "I did say I'm training my guests in _all_ the skills. Some of them are pretty good at it, too!"

He grinned, Mariella shook her head.

"I've got eighteen. Good people, shaping up well, fussy about what goes on the _braai_ , won't work Saturdays, but that doesn't matter. They cover the necessary things on Octedays, when we're all at Kirk. Balances out. You'll meet them later, Rivka."

He looked at her and said

"Now and again somebody from Cenotia calls by to see it's all going to plan. They're sending me a _welfare officer_ , apparently. Some woman from the Embassy in Pratoria wants to stay here for a few days. Got a clacks about it somewhere. Ag, as long as she's clued up enough not to go into the cow byre in sandals. We can cope."

He added a few compliments about how well Rivka had learnt to speak _Vondalaans_ and said apart from Morporkian, he'd never got the _knack_ for foreign languages. "Your school teaches you well."

Later on Mariella got to see the clacks from the Cenotian Embassy about the imminent welfare officer. She smiled to herself and stored the information for future enjoyment. Rivka had been borderline _annoying_ about Horst Lensen and the non-existent romance she somehow read into their thawing relationship. Teasing had gone on. A lot. This would be nice payback.

There was a celebratory _braai_ that evening, on the large shared lawn between the three interlinked family homes. The extended Smith-Rhodes family gathered, and Mariella caught up with her sister and brother who had decided travelling and excitement were not their thing. Her brother Andreas, a man who took after his father in every applicable way, was exuberant in his bear-like pleasure that his baby sister was home and unscathed, despite the numerous times she'd stuck her neck out, and invited some bloody Klatchian or Zulu to knock her head off her shoulders.

"So you fought the Zulus." he said, appraising her. "And you're still here. Ag. Johanna taught you well. Take after her. She could eat Zulus for breakfast and still have room for seconds."

"She probably still can." her sister Agnetha remarked. The middle sister of the three, Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had opted for marriage and motherhood. Mariella reflected that her sister could still put a crossbow bolt into a charging elephant's right eye from a hundred yards. Then reload, and do the same from fifty. That is, if the elephant hadn't spotted Agnetha loading up from a hundred and fifty yards away, and thought twice about charging her in the first place.

"Come over here, Mariella. I want to know about _my_ Johanna."

Mariella understood. Agnetha's oldest daughter was a student at the Guild School. She'd be the next Johanna Smith-Rhodes, bearer of the Name. It had got her, unseen, into the Assassins' School.

"Kurt, put that beer down and come and _listen_!" Agnetha demanded. "About our daughter! You remember her? Sent to school in Ankh-Morpork? Well, this is somebody with news!"

Mariella then reassured her sister and brother-in-law about their daughter. It was expected. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rivka mingling with the Cenotian visitors. She registered that her friend was spending more time than polite courtesy dictated with one in particular, a tall dark guy a few years older than she was. Internally she went "hmmm…" and filed this for attention later. He was quite good-looking, in a Circle Sea sort of way…

* * *

The next morning they woke early with the farming clock. The informal one that wakes people around dawn.

"Things to do." Mariella said. "By the way. Aaron, isn't he?"

Mariella was gratified to see Rivka redden slightly.

"He's just a _mensch,_ Mariella. And he isn't with the Institute, if that's what you're thinking."

"Not thinking anything et all. You spending time with a man. It interests me."

They washed and dressed, then assisted with necessary early-morning chores till breakfast. Mariella was interested that Rivka seemed keen to assist the Cenotian student Aaron with feeding animals, attaching herself to his team so it didn't seem _too_ obvious. She noted the interaction between them was easy and unforced. Mariella went "hmmm…" again.

Later in the morning they went for a ride, following the trail of the City guests who came here for safari holidays. Her father's brother ran that side of the business. Mariella wanted to catch up with him. They rode out, watching the cultivated fields and pasture land give way to unfarmed Veldt.

"There's a river over there?" Rivka asked, noting the vegetation got more lush and green in an interesting wavy line sort of way.

"Ja, The Ulunghi. It merks the _kaplyn_ between our land end the Zulu Empire. Let's detour, end take a look?"

Rivka wasn't surprised to see the opposite side of the river was identical veldt country. There was nothing much to be seen on the Zulu side; a herd of cattle grazed and was being watched by two disinterested young boys armed with long spears.

Zulu cattle-herders and mounted white women regarded each other for a few moments, then went on with their lives.

"All quiet on the border, then." Mariella remarked. "But it hes not elways been this way."

"I heard last night." Rivka said. They rode on.

"Wet season. The river's full. Nowhere to cross. High summer is the dangerous time, when the river's low."

"If an impi crosses, how much warning do you get?" Rivka asked. Mariella shrugged.

"Depends where they cross. We rode up here. If nobody's up here on a fast horse to raise the elerm, end they get over unseen, our plaas is perhaps two or three hours ewey to a full impi trevelling et en easy pace."

She smiled.

"Father makes sure people ride the river. So we cen get such warning. End prepare."

They rode on. A little later they spotted a Zulu patrol, four armed footsoldiers, on their side of the river. Rivka reached for her sword. Mariella shook her head.

"We watch for them crossing to our side. They patrol, watching for us crossing to _their_ side. It's the game."

She saluted the Zulus with an open hand. A Zulu saluted back with his assegai. It all seemed ridiculously polite.

"You're not going to do that " _Cower before me, for I am the Red Death!_ " stuff, are you?" Rivka asked, suspiciously.

Mariella checked her hat was concealing her hair.

"No, no point. We're just going ebout our business, on our own sides of the river. Besides, if I take my het off and they see who I am, efter Urabewe they might launch a raid just to get me. Not on my femily land. Not with my femily in the line of fire. Best be just an anonymous Boor on a horse."

They found the safari party a few miles further on. Mariella rode into their encampment.

Balthazar Smith-Rhodes, a dapper and wiry man in his fifties, as unlike his brother Barbarossa as you could get, didn't recognise her at first. Then he grinned a big delighted grin.

"Well, young meisie! _You've_ caused a stir or two this last year!"

"Get a brew on, Uncle. Then we can talk about Urabewe. _Smithville_. I discovered I don't have any interestingly red-haired cousins there, for one thing."

The grin faltered on Uncle Baal's face. Rivka smiled slightly and decided to watch the fun.

They returned to the plaas later in the afternoon. Some sort of excited stir was on. Something else had happened.

Mariella shrugged. Visitors, apparently. They went to stable their horses, handing them over to farmhands who acted as grooms. Then she saw the red-haired woman who was leaning on the rail of the _stoep,_ quietly waiting for them.

"Thought I'd catch up with you both here." Johanna Smith-Rhodes said, laconically. "We can talk about, oh, I don't know. Behaviour verging on _over-confidence_. Stealing my good name and reputation."

Johanna grinned and extended her arms.

The two sisters were about to hug when an excited red-haired child leapt in, shrieking _Tannie Mariella!,_ and got in first.

"I brought the family." Johanna explained. "We're all inside."

Mariella thought about gently disentangling Bekki, then decided it would be easier to accept she'd got an attached limpet, and just carry her.

* * *

 _ **A day or so earlier, in Pratoria.**_

 _From the newspaper_ _**De Burgher (en Het Volksblat)**_ _(translated into Morporkian for reader convenience):-_

 _From the back pages:-_

 _Reprinted by kind permission of the_ _ **Ankh-Morpork Times**_ _._

 _By the Times' Sports Correspondent Alan Kollick_

 _It was a cold autumn afternoon at the Old Coathanger Elk Stadium3_ _ **(3),**_ _Ankh-Morpork's premier venue for Llamedosian Rules Fifteen-A-Side Foot-the-Ball, a light cold drizzle falling over the field of combat as the long-anticipated battle for supremacy took place between two bitter foes on the pitch._

 _It is true to say that in this game, which is forever associated with its birth as a religious rite in Llamedos, the current masters of the sport are the emigré daughter nations of Ankh-Morpork and the Sto Plains, those three countries who are the ones who dominate and lead. There is the Foggy Islands, whose all-black strip, the colour of death and undertaking, announces to the opposition they will have a real battle on their hands. But not their game here today; this duel saw the Fourecksian Wallabies, in the golden-yellow representing the sands of the beaches and the outback, who took on the mighty Springboeks, the side composed of emigrés from faraway Rimwards Howondaland, in their green and gold._

 _Watching from the snug of the clubhouse bar which conveniently overlooks the field of play through its large windows (I was obliged to be here so as to partake in the generous hospitality offered by the Ambassadors of Fourecks and Rimwards Howondaland, whose nations are keen on following the fortunes of their respective sides), I saw one of the fastest and most furious games of foot-and-indeed-hand-the-ball it has ever been my privilege to witness._

 _As indeed did a capacity crowd of fifteen thousand others, with standing room only. The noise was deafening. It sounded as though every Fourecksian and Rimlands Howondalandian in Ankh-Morpork was here to cheer on their national sides, who carry so much of the pride and passion of two great nations._

 _Cheering loudest of all were the coterie of female fans of the Springboeks, a group of comely but formidable Valkyries who follow their menfolk to games, that group of distaff aficionados of the sport who are dubbed The Bokkie Babes. Not all are wives and lady friends of the fifteen heroes on the field, and indeed not all are Rimwards Howondalandian, but they gather in some numbers every Saturday afternoon to cheer for the men. I could not help but notice that students at the Guild of Assassins' School are disproportionately represented in their ranks, and suspect this might be due to influence exerted by the popular teacher Miss Heidi van Kruger. (_ **local editor's note:** _a native of Magersfontein currently resident in Ankh-Morpork. The AG school currently has over forty Rimwards Howondalandian students on its rolls, approximately half of whom are female)._

 _Indeed, Miss van Kruger's particular reason to be present at all games led his side out to ecstatic cheers from the Babes, and went through the pre-match formalities of the respective national flags being raised, and the Singing of the National Anthems (the match programmes, published by the local printing house of Dibbler and Toppliss, helpfully carried the words in the back, so the crowd could sing Verse Two with as much confidence as Verse One)._

 _So we heard_ _ **Forward**_ _,_ _ **Fourecks Fair Dinkum**_ _, followed by_ _ **Die**_ _ **Stem van Hovondalaand.**_ _(Morporkian lyrics were also published for those unfamiliar with Vondalaans). National anthems performed by fifteen thousand people are always moving. I offered my glass to be refilled with a trembling hand. A section of the Howondalandian crowd began singing the alternative national anthem, the Vondalaander Heart hymn. Somehow this sounded more moving and heartfelt than the official anthem. Even the Fourecksians present recognised this and did not barrack and catcall, as they are prone to._

 _The officiating Druid, The Reverend Nuadd Owens (Llamedos) supported by his touchline judges Le Curé Pascal Poite (Quirm) and The Rev. Congall O'Flaverty (Hergen) called together team captains Barry Cooder and Danie Smith-Rhodes, presided over the formal handshake, reminded them he wanted a good clean game which would be acceptable in the eyes of the Gods, checked his hourglass, and blew for the kick-off._

 _And so the game began, with shrieks of encouragement from the Bokkie Babes and their Fourecksian counterparts, the almost-as-vocal Walabettes..._

 _ **In Main News: -**_

 _ **Bitterfontein's Hero Returns For His Day Of Reckoning!**_

 _By Suki van der Graaf._

 _I have been privileged beyond words to have been part of the unfolding drama of the three Heroes who have not only crossed the entire continent on foot, but who have fought heroic actions against the Klatchians and our time-old foes of the Zulu Empire._

 _I said a reluctant farewell to the two Heroines of Urabewe and Chirundu at New Scrote, where their intention was to travel on to the family home of the Smith-Rhodes clan in the Transvaal. No doubt a warm heroines' welcome awaits Mariella Smith-Rhodes and her companion in valour, Miss Rivka ben-Devorah, in Piemberg, as well as a warm family reunion!_

 _I chose to travel to Pratoria in the company of the third hero of the border fighting, a modest and reticent young man called Horst Lensen, whose story I have told to readers of_ _ **De Burgher (en Het Volksblat)**_ _in previous instalments of this thrilling and engrossing tale._

 _An escapee from foul captivity in Klatch, who struggled singlehandedly through desert and jungle, who assisted in fighting the Zulu pirates who sought to prevent their safe return to our land, throughout all his travails, Horst was only motivated by one thing: to reach Pratoria and make his rendezvous with the Guild of Assassins at their office in our nation. To attain the glittering and coveted status of Graduate Licenced Assassin. Many apply to the School. Less are chosen. Only a relative handful, a fraction of those who began, succeed in the gruelling seven years of training. Those who make it are truly an elite band of brothers and sisters. Very many elect to leave and move on after the initial four years of largely general education: many others drop out in the three years of the Black Track. Even then there are those who the Guild decree should have a final eighth year of gruelling trial, largely alone and outside the guidance of the Guild, to determine their status. Horst was one such._

 _How then could I not be there at the end, to be a witness at the final trial of his capacity and fitness for full Guild honours?_

 _One very final surprise was in store for both of us._

 _The Guild performs its very final rite of passage in secret. What happens here is rumoured, but never spoken of afterwards. I was told I could not be present and, with regrets, had to wait, anxiously and with bated breath, in the waiting rooms of the Guild's local office. I gathered that the Guild takes its Final Examination very seriously indeed and wanted to be sure they were conferring status on a deserving candidate. Much deliberation went on in the ranks of the Dark Council as to who the Final Examiner should be. I discovered later an Examiner had been despatchet to Pratoria, in secret and under such discreet conditions that not even I got an inkling of her presence._

 _It was my cousin Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, the famous heroine of our nation, winner of the Howondaland Star in Gold for her bravery and leadership in battle, a renowned Assassin and the elder sister of the rising star Mariella Smith-Rhodes, who I have accompanied for part of her great trek and reported on for this paper._

 _She descended the fateful staircase accompanying Horst, now elevated to the ranks of Assassins, greeted me, and suggested I joined the party for dinner somewhere._

 _Her plan after concluding the Final Examination is to travel to Piemberg and reunite with her sister and family._

 _I can only think: truly, if both Smith-Rhodes sisters are reunited on the Border and the Zulus are fool enough to attack (both are under sentence of death in the Empire) – then it is going to be a very short painful war for them._

 **Interview with Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, (GSH, PV, PhD(UU). ,MScM. Ass ), on Page 23.**

 **Other News:**

 _The Bureau of Defence, Thursday. A press release confirms all forces in the Piemberg Military District of the Transvaal have been placed on a higher degree of alert. A BOD spokesman denied this is necessarily to do with both Smith-Rhodes sisters, known targets of the Zulu Empire, being in the same place at the same time only a short march from the Border. The enhanced alert is a routine military exercise, as is the one-hour mobilisation alert issued to all members of the local Volkskommando. The BOD would not be drawn on unconfirmed reports that a regular cavalry kommando is being sent to the military base at Fort Rapier, Piemberg, to strengthen the immediately available garrison._

 _Policy, the spokesman said, is what it always was: we do not seek war with the Zulu Empire, but should any elements of their forces cross the River, they will be contained and dealt with using the appropriate level of response for the situation. After recent events on the border of Smith-Rhodesia, all forces on our borders will be alert to signs of intrusion and watching our frontiers even more vigilantly._

 _From the back pages:-_

 _Reprinted by kind permission of the_ _ **Ankh-Morpork Times**_ _._

 _By the Times' Sports Correspondent Alan Kollick, translated for_ _ **DeBurgher**_ _. Please note that parts of Danie Smith-Rhodes' post-match interview with Al Kollick of the_ _ **Times**_ _was printed verbatim by them – with all innocence, as nobody on that esteemed paper speaks Vondalaans – and as we are a family publication, we have paraphrased somewhat and edited Danie's more robust choice of words for tone._

" _With the scores tied at twenty-four all and both teams having exhausted their reserve players to fill breaches in their ranks brought about by the robust nature of the game, only two minutes remained on the hourglass. (even allowing for injury time)._

" _Who would win? Who would triumph? Which of the two Ambassadors in the hospitality suite with me would win their private bet upon which several hundred dollars were staked? I accepted a renewed glass with thanks at this tense moment._

" _it looked like stalemate, despite a flurry of activity that saw the Wallabies' genial lock-forward Bruce "Slugger" O'Hagan stretchered off with concussion, following a loose maul with the Springboeks' hooker Mauritz "Kafferpak" de Uitnek. As I heard his Excellency Pieter van der Graaf remark to His Excellency Sir Desmond Matterhorn, "Well, that puts us ahead by two fractures and a concussion", the Wallabies fumbled the resulting penalty kick abominably, ceding possession to the Springboeks. Even above the shrieking encouragement of the Bokkie Babes I heard the calm voice of Danie Smith-Rhodes calling for "Kaapse Draai!"which I understand was out of the game book and refers to a pre-planned move. The ball passed from Langmar Blondeman to Mauritz de Uitnek who moved, like a human golem, through the Wallabies until he was in position to pass to Danie Smith-Rhodes himself._

 _As the crowd hushed and there was a single female shriek of "Ons vir jou, Danie!", the red-haired champion of his nation briefly deliberated, realised there was no point in running for the try, and dropped the ball to his waiting boot. A hushed crowd saw the ball fly straight and true and pass between the uprights for the field-penalty points. Fourecks was defeated, if not vanquished, and the stadium erupted to a Springboeks victory. As the officiating Druid whistled for the end, one of the first spectators to run onto the field was Miss Heidi van Kruger, who easily evaded stewards to claim her man before anyone else did, followed by a phalanx of Bokkie Babes of various ages._

" _Behind me, the Fourecksian High Commissioner resignedly peeled off a wad of bills to his Howondalandian counterpart, who received them graciously, and it was suggested we might all appreciate another drink. At this stage in a thrilling game I needed one._

" _Afterwards I got to interview Danie Smith-Rhodes._

" _Man, that was a lekker game. The bros played their hearts out and in the end we kind of slapped the Fourecksians down and won the game. I'm well pleased and somewhere in the vicinity of the moon. Bruce Cooder over there, he's a bro, a bit parrot-sick now but we'll get together and send a bakkie down the Lady Sybil to collect the bros who got donnered, bring them back to the bar for a few lekker beers together, are you staying for a drink, Al? So long as we don't fight as to whether it's called a braai or a barbie, we can fire a bit of a bunny-chow or a Gatsby-slap up and talk football. Here's to the next game!"_ **(4)**

 **From an interview with Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, (GSH, PV, PhD(UU). , MSc, M. Ass), by Suki van der Graaf:**

 _No, Suki, we do not talk about the specifics of the Final Examination. Ever. I can say in general terms that the Guild wishes to be seen as scrupulously fair in our dealings with students. I was sent her to conduct the final tests because it was thought that the Examiner should be of the same cultural and national background as the examined student. The exam was conducted in Vondalaans, for instance, the first language of all three people present._

 _The Extended Year option is used for borderline candidates, yes. Those who based on their academic performance who are uncertain to pass, but who have enough going in their favour not to be outright failures. And however good the teaching is and however realistic we strive to make it, it will inevitably always have an element of artificiality about it. We know through experience that there are students who do not shine in an academic environment, but who if tested in real conditions will draw on depths of character and resolve and apply their lessons in practical and very real tests. And yes, Horst Lensen was one such._

 _And yes, he did run into trouble and a mission had to be planned to rescue him. It did incur costs to the Guild. (Doctor Smith-Rhodes paused and reflected.) How much? Oh, in financial terms, we can safely say_ **at least** _four thousand dollars. That's maybe thirteen thousand rand at current rates. When it's all totted up, probably over ten thousand. But that's not important. The guiding principle is to leave nobody behind and move heaven and disc to get them out. We put him there: it was up to us to get him out. Which my sister did, at personal risk._

 _The Guild were impressed by the depths of resolve and character – frankly, we hadn't expected this, but it emerged in him – that Mr Lensen displayed in his trek. I was sent to explore and test this further in his final exam. And no, no specifics. It is perhaps admissible to say that I was required to put him under pressure and to seek to ascertain how well he had assimilated the subtler lessons the Guild sought to teach him. We never had a doubt as to his practical skills – weapons, fieldcraft, physical stamina, and soforth. We were concerned about what could be called the more cerebral aspects, many of which appeared to have eluded him. I examined him by asking very specific questions – no, no details – to which he had to come up with a reasoned verbal answer. No right answer, no wrong answer. Just a reasoned articulate statement of a position. He performed more than acceptably well. He was therefore passed fit to be an Assassin._

 _I was also pleased, after the exam, to pass on the good wishes of a prominently placed person and suggest he looks in that direction for employment during National Service. A qualified Assassin is going to be in demand from more than one branch of Government service, after all. He may almost be able to choose who gets him!_

 _And if that's it, Suki, let's order lunch, shall we? Then I can organise getting my family group together to travel to Piemberg. There are people there I haven't seen in ages. No, I can call in a favour from the Pegasus Service. Get everyone on either a Pegasus or a magic carpet for a quick taxi ride. You know how fast they can move!_

* * *

 **(1)** There's a long and scientifically rigorous answer too. It occupies the Disc Hydrostasis shelves of the Library (Blit number 022:4037-) and is currently estimated as seventeen million worlds with mathematical models. Disc Hydrostasis is defined as the continual cyclic flow of ideas out of the brains of Wizards onto the printed page and from there into the brains of other Wizards who add their own words to the flow which in turn cycle through the brains of other Wizards and then onto more printed pages….

 **(2)** Had to insert this for reader GuesssWho who asked the question. I've contemplated Disc equivalents of latitude and longitude, and its hydrostatic system, elsewhere… think it's in _**The Discworld Tarot**_. Could be wrong. Oh, and the Dimwell Meridian is explained in one of the opening chapters of _**Bungle In The Jungle**_.

 **(3).** OK. London Irish play at The Old Deer Park stadium in London…

 **(4)** Danie had talked about donnering the Fourecksian kuits and poepols with a really lekker poseklap or two. The Times had asked about the spelling of these quaint idioms and had published them verbatim. The papers in R.H. really did have to paraphrase. Other Ankh-Morporkian idioms were harder to render in Vondalaans.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **Worked it out. Hooray, there's a city in the old Transvaal called** _ **Pietersberg**_ **(Polokwane). It is within stabbing distance of SA's borders. This (conflated with Sharpe's P-berg) is an even better fit for Piemberg. The old townships even have better names: in apartheid days there was Nirvana.** _ **Really.**_ **Westernburg. Turfloop.**

"Former White suburbs in the city include: Bendor, Welgelegen, Moregloed, Annadale, Ivydale, Flora Park, Fauna Park, Penina Park, Ivy Park, Hospital Park, Ster Park, Dalmada, Broadlands, Woodlands, and Thornhill. Serala View and Marula Heights are new "black" elite suburbs."

 **And I know. The Drakensbergs. I've managed to shift an entire mountain range by several hundred miles. Ah well. It can't all be one-to-one mapping.**

 **Hot damn, the model I discovered on the Internet who is the living walking face of Mariella Smith-Rhodes appears to have made it to TV. She's on the adverts for the Very clothes catalogue firm, apparently. And I still don't know her name so as to do a better search…**


	34. Almost the last words

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Four. The End?**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **It's the end of the line and the rest of everybody's life begins here.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Piemberg. Glimpses of family life.**_

Agnetha Maaijande nudged her sister Johanna and nodded to a corner of the room.

"Oh, ka… _Hell_." Johanna sighed. She took a cautious step forward to where her daughter Famke was observing a fine example of the local wildlife. Famke, not yet two years old, had toddled to watch the interesting creature that was squatting on the wall under the window and was watching with deep intent fascination.

"They give me the creeps, those things." Agnetha remarked. Johanna moved with slow deliberation as the baboon spider began stridulating, a low bass hiss of warning.

"Famke? Move slowly away. Come to Mummy, sweetheart. _Now_." Johanna said.

"Singing, mummy!" Famke said, fascinated.

"Yes. They do." Johanna agreed. "But still. Best you come to Mummy. Or Tannie Agnetha."

Johanna drew her machete and prompted the spider away with the flat.

 _Not a lethally poisonous spider. But can still deliver a nasty bite. And when they hiss, they're threatened._

Johanna judged her moment. Baboon spiders grew big. Ten inches across _. So if you got it underneath the body just so. On the flat of the blade, and then flick it out of the window…._

Everybody in the room breathed more easily as the spider was encouraged to leave.

"Make a mess, if you donner them a klap." Agnetha said. She smiled at her sister, the more experienced mother taking the opportunity to assert superiority and greater knowledge. "Takes a big klap. And they tend to _splat_. Takes cleaning."

She hugged Famke warmly. "Johanna, you must have worked out by now that a good nine-tenths of being a mother is to be continually terrified at the things they do and the situations they get into."

Johanna nodded, feeling truly worried at what might have happened. Her sister smiled and shoulder-hugged her, the point having been made.

"And there are problems here they won't have seen in Ankh-Morpork." Agnetha added. "Can't leave them on their own, Johanna. Bekki, too."

Johanna agreed. Hers were city children who needed the short course in Veldt hazard-recognition. It came as standard if you were born and raised here.

Ponder Stibbons breathed out. He'd once been to Fourecks. He'd seen the wildlife there. This was his fourth or fifth visit to Howondaland. He had to concede that the wildlife here wasn't _quite_ as threatening as Fourecks. But it came a close second.

"Is, er, that as big as spiders get round here?" he asked, politely.

Kurt Maaijande laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Hells, no! We get Orb Spiders too. In the bush. Bigger. And you get violin spiders, sand crab spiders – they're _bigger_. Yellow-sac spiders. The worst are button spiders. Tiny little bliksems. But their bite kills. One nibble and – bang. You fall over. Dead."

"Don't frighten him, Kurt." Agnetha said. "If one of us spots something dangerous, we can point it out. Warn people. So they know what to watch for. No point in _alarming_ people."

She smiled.

"All part of being a good host." she said.

"Well, now _that's_ sorted out!" Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes boomed, amiably. "Things to do. Ponder, my boy!"

"Yes, sir?" Ponder said, attentively. He instinctively treated his father-in-law with the same deference he used for Mustrum Ridcully. Physically, they'd been assembled in the same factory to much the same sort of blueprint: the factory spec had appeared to call for "build them large. Make them loud. Make them direct. Give them an appetite for beer, big dinners and dubious songs. We're going for _elemental force of nature_ here".

Barbarossa shook his head. He addressed the room, a happy post-breakfast group.

"I don't know. Boy still calls me "sir". The only fellow to have come halfway close to taming Johanna. Father of two lovely girls. Fought like Hell against the bloody Matabel. Stood by my daughter's side in some hard places. Got the good opinion of my friend Mustrum Ridcully. Nothing to prove to _anyone_ , and quite a few years in, still he calls me "sir"."

He clapped Ponder on the shoulder, making him rock slightly.

"Got a job for you. There's a part of the land where it's too dry. Never been able to make anything grow there. Not much use for grazing. The geologist people say there's nothing useful underneath it. Frankly it's a dead loss. You wizards can do water-divining, yesno? I want you to see if there's a water source there, if you're willing. Usually you bloody wizards ask a lot of rand for a consultancy like that, but the way I see it, a wizard in the family!"

"Be delighted, sir… _Barbarossa_." Ponder said, quickly. His father-in-law grinned down happily.

"Coming, Kurt? You can see what needs to be done and if Ponder here finds a good place for a well, you can hire labour to dig it. Roust a cart-load of fellows in from Nirvana."

Barbarossa shook his head.

"Ag, whoever called the bloody township _Nirvana_ must have had a sif sense of humour. But that's the Transvaal for you. Anyway, I take two of my sons-in-law for a ride in the morning. We can make a bet as to what sort of a fellow Mariella eventually brings home as my third. Got two good men so far, and there's every hope the third will shape up, _whoever_ he turns out to be."

Barbarossa looked knowingly at Ponder.

"You've seen more of the girl over the last few years than we have. Get you away from Johanna, you can tell me if any interesting candidates have shown themselves. Her mother's got high hopes of a fellow called Timothy, apparently."

Ponder looked over to Johanna. She smiled tolerantly. Then made mysterious reference to a place where nothing ever grows and no rain or rivers flow, but at least it didn't snow at Hogswatch. Or indeed at any other time of year.

"See if you can bring some water there, Ponder. Before we get to remember Hogswatch is coming. Nice present!" **(1)**

* * *

 _ **Some days earlier, Pratoria.**_

Horst Lensen relaxed. The day had turned out to be a lot better than he had anticipated. He had been confronted with the nightmare scenario for any student Assassin walking into the place where the very last stage of the Final Examination was to take place. He had discovered the teacher who was administering the exam was the one who, for most of the preceding seven years, had treated him with, at best, studied and professional iciness and who, at worst, had looked at him as if he was something distasteful at the bottom of an animal cage. Frequently.

And well-founded lore among students was that Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, normally a maverick who avoided wearing the formal Black in favour of comfortable Howondalandian veldt-khaki, only ever donned the full formal Black when concluding an inhumation. Contract rules stipulated this; the Concordat said an Assassin must be correctly dressed as a courtesy to the client, so they would have no doubt whatsoever as to the status of the person concluding the contract.

And, Horst had noticed with cold icy dread, she was wearing her best official Black.

Deciding he was probably doomed, he had decided to put up the best possible performance on the way out.

To his surprise, she had filled out the pink slip, congratulated him, and had invited him to call her Johanna, as post-graduation good manners suggested.

And now he was a guest at a good restaurant with Johanna, her family, and other people. It appeared that he'd evaded Death for a third time.

"Order anything you like." she had said. "It's on expenses. The Guild's paying. And after the year you've had, the Guild possibly owes you a good lunch."

"Strive ye not to slurp thy drink, Rebecka." the plump blonde nanny said, in her strangely accented language that was like to, but not, _Vondalaans_. And not Kerrigian either.

"And no making a noise through the straw, either." Johanna added. She smiled at Horst.

"Annaliese's from the Sto Plains." she explained. "You've never really heard Phlegmish before? Those clever linguist people believe it's the root-language, the oldest form. Kerrigian came from Phlegmish and _Vondalaans_ came from Kerrigian. I've never asked, but I'd suspect _Vondalaans_ sounds a bit coarse and crude and _zef_ to people from Phlaanders. Is that so, Annaliese?"

The nanny smiled.

"Thy speech is most direct and makes the point swiftly, Mistress." Annaliese said. "It is of interest to be in a location where all speak as ye do. It is much improving my speaking and my understanding."

Johanna smiled.

"Six years, nearly, and she still calls me "mistress." she said.

She appraised Horst for a few moments.

"So. Mr Lensen. _Horst._ What do you intend to do now you've graduated?"

He considered this.

"I'm not too sure. I should now go to the Bureau of Defence, as my deferment will expire soon. To register for National Service. Then return to the family plaas and help out. To fill in the time until I'm called up. Then it's likely to be basic training at Wynberg or Simonstown. They're the nearest training barracks to Home."

Johanna considered this. She knew her country wasn't short of military bases. It was inescapable. And policy was to send recruits to bases fairly near their homes. It was expedient and offered the human touch of short weekend leaves. She'd done her initial training at Fort Rapier in Piemberg, and assumed Mariella would go there too when her time came. Fort Rapier trained a lot of women soldiers.

"And after basic induction and officer training school. Posting to a dedicated branch of Service." she said, thoughtfully. "Once the basic competences are instilled. And assessments are made."

Johanna considered the letters in her bag. She'd bring them out at the right time. She carefully did not ask him if he still wanted to go to BOSS, the paramilitary secret police, after initial training, preferring to let Horst raise this in his own time. She invited him to speak of home and family, and listened.

Horst Lensen spoke about the family vineyards, with pride and a certain wistfulness. Johanna listened for the spill words. Horst appeared concerned and worried. She gathered his father, somewhat cold and distant, had a regrettable tendency to sample the end product too much and could get unpredictable after quality-testing the family wine.

"Occupational hazard of the vintner, yesno?" she remarked, gently.

Horst nodded, sadly.

And his older two brothers. The older brother who stood to inherit had no real feel for the work and saw it as a means to get gambling and party money. The middle brother had moved out as soon as he could and was doing well elsewhere. Without saying so openly, Horst hinted there were debts.

"And I believe I owe your sister four thousand dollars. I appreciate that, and she will be repaid. But it will take time." he said, sadly. "I do not think I could count on family largesse. Not at present. I could perhaps resell Assassin equipment I will have no need for while doing military service. That's good for perhaps fifteen hundred. As a downpayment."

"At the Fiveways Fair2 **(2).** " Johanna said, sympathetically. An Assassin who fell on hard times could auction their working gear to raise desperation funding. This was accepted. Other Guild members usually contrived, understanding, to offer the best prices for it. But selling your kit was a shameful thing and last resort. She considered, and brought out a letter from several.

"This is from Lord Downey." she explained. "I understand part of it is not to be taken personally, and it is a standard form letter to graduates in your circumstances."

She waited while he opened and read it. His eyes opened with surprise and his face expressed surprise and not a little relief.

"I understand, I think, that I should refrain from accepting any contracts, at least for a few years and until I have undertaken refresher and retraining courses in certain areas." he said, slowly. "That is perhaps for the best."

Johanna nodded.

"It is right, I think. Experience tells us that if we graduate a hundred students each year, less than twenty will choose to be active in the Profession. For now, you are one of the eighty."

Horst accepted this.

"But, Johanna. I wasn't expecting to read that your sister and Rivka submitted very good reports about me. Mariella… well, we really didn't get on. Pretty much entirely down to me, I now realise. I regret that."

Johanna shrugged.

"You redeemed yourself. Where it counted. At Smithville. On the river. And when you intimidated that petty Customs _dof_ with well-chosen words and assisted Mariella and Rivka with being released from custody. This and other things suggested we should review your case favourably."

Horst re-read the letter.

 _It has been decided that in the exceptional circumstances which applied, the costs incurred by the Guild in facilitating your rescue will be waived to you and absorbed as inescapable working costs. You will now not be charged for the nearly ten thousand dollars in expenses which were incurred by the Guild. Miss Mariella Smith-Rhodes has been separately informed that the Guild will reimburse her for the personal expense she incurred in financing your rescue. You may now begin your adult life free from debt. Again we congratulate you for the personal resolve, bravery, and the depth of character you displayed in your actions at several points in your journey across the continent…_

It was signed by Lord Downey, Guild Master, and Miss Joan Sanderson-Reeves, Deputy Guild Mistress.

Horst Lensen blinked.

Johanna studied his face.

"Surprised? _Ag._ Ten thousand dollars is small change compared to the amount in the Guild coffers. Despite Mr Winvoe thinking it's coming out of his own pocket and threatening this sort of generosity could bankrupt us. I'd say we can afford it."

She called for the wine list.

Horst noted she took care to select a wine from the Lensen family vineyard. He wondered if she'd researched this. He also recalled that normally, she preferred beer.

"I'm not normally a wine drinker." she remarked. "But sometimes the occasion calls for it. And this is not too bad at all. Your family grow good grapes."

 _Something to speak about to Father_ , she reflected. _And research, dig around. How bad a state is the Lensen vineyard in, financially? Something to consider. It's always bad to see a Boer family go under._

"Any thought as to arm of service?" she asked, making it sound casual.

Horst sighed.

"I never thought there was any doubt." He said. "Till recently."

He opened out.

Shortly after his arrival in Ankh-Morpork, there'd been the usual reception at the Embassy for new Guild students. Johanna had escorted the new people there to be introduced to the Ambassador and key people, so they could be reminded that as citizens in a foreign country they had both rights and obligations.

At some point, the sinister and weasely Liutnant Verkramp, the resident BOSS section chief, had selected Horst Lensen as a likely candidate, and a sort of grooming process had begun.

Johanna had noticed this and decided not to intervene too much. She couldn't. Nobody could openly defy or oppose BOSS without sanctions, not even a Smith-Rhodes who was related to the Ambassador. Considering her options, she had decided that she at least now knew who the BOSS mole in the Guild was, and could control this at least, as far as she could.

And it wasn't too hard to work out. Verkramp had picked on a vulnerable boy, with a distant and lacking father, who was alone in a strange place, already somewhat isolated from his peers, and stepped in as a father-figure to offer the approval and mentoring he desperately needed.

Verkramp had wheedled small petty things out of Lensen about his peers and teachers. Where Miss Smith-Rhodes, for instance, had let slip her scepticism concerning the rightness of apartheid as social policy, and about her closeness to Zulu nationals whom she appeared improperly friendly with. These little things had been added to the relevant damning files.

Johanna sighed. She'd expected this.

And then he'd said, well, you're telling me little things. Look for the _big_ ones. It is a service to our nation, and after you graduate, BOSS needs good people. Stick with me and your future is assured.

She added this to a growing mental file of her own concerning Verkramp, and decided that one day there'd been a reckoning with him. The only reason why she hadn't dealt conclusively with him before – apart from there being no official contract – was the suspicion that if Verkramp disappeared, BOSS would replace the ridiculous silly little tumour with somebody who was more efficient as a spy.

"And it wasn't just you." Horst continued. It was mortifying, but it was good to confess. Cleansing, somehow. "Miss van Kruger too. And other students. Including Mariella. When she started getting friendly with that Zulu girl."

Johanna said nothing.

 _And we let this happen_ , she thought. She felt a twinge of something like shame. Doctor Perdore and Monsieur de Balouard had been of the opinion that the situation could be managed, and young Lensen could be fed the right sort of misleading information that could be passed on. And nobody had paused to consider the corroding effect on the pupil himself. She reflected on one or two problem cases among the current crop of Rimwards Howondalandian students at the Guild, and wondered how this knowledge could be used to support them. It was highly likely Verkramp was corrupting them too.

"I regret that now. Sincerely and deeply." Lensen said.

Johanna took his hand in a much belated gesture of forgiveness. If it hadn't been him, it would have been _somebody_.

"You were not entirely to blame." she said. "But it seems you've redeemed yourself. I'm pleased. Now let's talk about how to save your soul."

She brought out another letter.

"It's a personal reference from Hans Dreyer." she said. "He wants you in the Slew. I'm thinking that a much-decorated Army commander. In an élite unit. If anyone has got the clout to get you out of the clutches of BOSS, it's the Crowbar. If somebody like Dreyer wants you after you pass out of officer school, _he will get you_. And I'm just betting the Bureau of Defence have already got a copy of this reference. Go with him."

Johanna smiled.

"You had seven indifferent years at the Guild School." she said. "But that's not the end of the world. Hans Dreyer wants to make something of you. It'll sting and it'll be hard, but he _will._ "

She lowered her voice. This was not a private space. "Listen. Let me tell you a story. One upon a time there was a young girl of around nineteen or twenty. She had an _attitude._ She was closed in, defensive, narrow-minded, a pain in the guava, and completely hard to love. She even thought things were broadly right in this country and that BOSS were doing a good job, even if they were a bit extreme sometimes."

She poured some more wine.

"That stroppy little girl had just spent two years in uniform. A little over half of that in the Slew. Seen action. Then she got to go to Ankh-Morpork. The Guild of Assassins made her an offer she couldn't refuse. And Gods, she was a pain in the guava there too. At first. But three good people did a lot to shape her up and knock the sharp edges off. The wrong sort of sharp edges. She met a woman who liked other women more than she liked men. While she didn't go that way, this friend showed her that being different is not to be inferior. You know? There was a woman from Quirm who lived an interestingly different life. She opened the stroppy little girl's eyes too. And a much older lady who'd seen it all at least once, and then come back to see the things she quite liked for a second go. A terrifying older woman who was still, and stayed, a very good friend. And opened the idiot dof's eyes as to what really is. And despite being frankly hard to love and despite her being a fool and a _bliksem_ and a total _pielkop_ , _they never gave up on her._ And she changed. Do you see what I'm saying here?"

Horst Lensen contemplated his former teacher.

"I believe I do, Johanna. And thank you."

Johanna smiled.

"I sometimes wonder where that young idiot might have gone otherwise." she said.

And later, when she had Horst had gone their separate ways, she reflected she'd completely forgotten to collect Rivka's crossbow so as to bring it back.

 _Ah well. He'll sort that out for himself._

Johanna busied herself getting her travelling party together. They'd arranged to travel from the Embassy in Pratoria for the short hop across the country. Bringing them all together was like herding cats, but she managed.

* * *

 _ **Piemberg. Another glimpse of somebody else's future direction.**_

Johanna looked sympathetically at the worried native couple who'd brought the animal in, trusting that Baas Barbarossa would be able to help. Her father had the local reputation of being a good and fair baas to all the people who lived in the area, not just the white ones. And she knew that livestock were valuable to the black people who lived in the area. A good goat was milk, fleece for spinning, and at the end of its life, meat for the pot.

This was a pregnant nanny goat, who was suffering.

She knelt upright and sighed.

"So what do you think, Johanna?" her mother asked. Agnetha Smith-Rhodes had said to the native woman that perhaps her daughter could assist, she knew a lot about animals and their ailments.

"It's classic dystocia, _mutti_." Johanna said. "Something wrong in the womb. She's in labour but can't birth the kid."

Johanna patted the panting goat's flank. She was almost certain that she would have to go in with a caesarean. She could do it, but it was uncertain. The mother might die, but at least the owners would get a new kid to raise. And good animals were the nearest thing to wealth these people had.

The third generation Smith-Rhodes present let her lip tremble.

"So the mummy goat might die? And her baby?"

Johanna squeezed Bekki's hand.

"I could go in." Agnetha said. "You know. Manually. But there isn't much room there and it could be my hand and arm are too big."

"What do you mean, ouma?" Bekki asked. Her grandmother explained. To Johanna's pleasant surprise, Bekki didn't flinch, express repugnance or go "Ewww!"

"If babies come _out_ of there." Bekki said, working it out, "And something is stopping them. Then somebody can put their arm and their hand _in,_ and find out what's wrong."

"Ja, exactly!" Agnetha said, pleased. "But my hand may be too big. And your mother's. Your mother may have to cut her open to get to the kid that way."

"And that would hurt. And the mother might die." Bekki said. She moved forward and laid her hand on the nanny goat's flank. She closed her eyes.

" _Mutti, ouma_. Let me do this. I think I can see what's wrong!"

Agnetha looked at Johanna. Both took a deep breath.

"She has little hands." Agnetha said. "It may work. Rebecka, be sure you wish to do this."

Bekki nodded. She seemed sure and determined.

Then a few minutes later, her arm greased to the shoulder and her tunic off, she was focused intently on what she was doing. Her mother and grandmother watched intently.

"Mummy, I can feel more than two legs." Bekki said, her face pressed to the goat's flank. "There are two babies in here. One is alive. I can feel its face nuzzling me. It's tickly. But both babies are trying to come out at once, and they're all tangled up. I can see if I close my eyes how they are…"

She concentrated again.

"I can do it now. If I take this leg and move it around…"

The mother goat bleated. It sounded like relief.

Bekki withdrew her arm. Seconds later the first of two kids was born. After that there was a second.

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes smiled. The goat's owners exclaimed in pleasure and relief.

Bekki squealed with pleasure as the kids staggered onto their hooves. She gently steered them to where they could find milk.

"And she doesn't need to be shown." Agnetha remarked. "It's instinct. Rebecka. Tell me how you did that."

"While you're washing your arm." Johanna said, feeling pride in her daughter. " _Properly_."

"I closed my eyes." Bekki said. "And the mummy goat showed me a picture of what was inside her. How her babies were all mixed up and needed help. It was easy. Do you see that in your animals, _ouma_?"

Agnetha and Johanna looked at each other.

"Her father's a wizard." her grandmother said. "Don't they say this is a witch-skill? Magic?"

Johanna sighed. She was now fairly sure her daughter's life would lead her to Lancre. Or to the Chalk. She was also aware of the goat's owner exclaiming about how the child had good muti and was surely destined for _isangoma_ status.

"Oh, _griet_." Johanna said. " _Liewe heksie_."

Her mother patted her on the shoulder.

" _Ja._ _ **Onse**_ _liewe heksie."_

" _Haai oe Blommie"._ Johanna said, censoring herself. Her mother didn't like bad language and anyway, not in front of her daughter. She decided to talk to Ponder about this. She could normally figure out more or less what was wrong with an ailing animal, but did it the conventional way, and was never helped by closing her eyes and seeing a helpful picture project itself onto the screen of her mind.

It wasn't _all_ bad, she thought. Maybe, under supervision, Bekki might appreciate a few more trips to the Zoo. Bring this skill on and see how far it went.

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Bekki?"

"If I'm going to be a _heksie_ , can I get a go on Daddy's broomstick?"

Johanna smiled.

"No. Bekki. Well, not just now, anyway."

Elsewhere on the farm Mariella Smith-Rhodes kicked her heels in quiet bored solitude. She'd gained the impression from the general vibe that she was the third wheel, the lemon, the unwanted chaperone.

Rivka was spending more and more time in the company of the Cenotian exchange student Aaron. Oh, it was innocent, so far, and it was pretty much the sort of guarded Cenotian courtship (there! She'd said the word.) which had other Cenotians, other established couples, tagging along to see it didn't get out of hand.

But she, Mariella Smith-Rhodes, was now experiencing separation from the closest best friend she had, the girl she'd just spent over a year travelling a continent with and experiencing challenges and perils with. This was one experience, Rivka's unspoken language had made clear, that wasn't for sharing.

She had also noted that Annaliese, Johanna's nanny, had attracted the attention of one of the younger farmhands, who was finding reasons to be working where she was. Annaliese was indicating she was not unaverse to the attention, so long as he realised Famke was her first priority.

She sighed. Romance seemed all around. For other people.

She had made the way to the kitchen of her sister-in-law, wife of her brother Andreas, who was older and wiser and a sympathetic ear.

"Hei, Nelli." she said, trying not to be moody.

Cornelia Smith-Rhodes welcomed her warmly.

"Thought you'd be calling by." Nelli said. "Well, either me or Agnetha. I'm guessing you're at a loose end right now?"

Mariella nodded.

"About this time of day I've got the kettle on. Roobuis?"

Mariella nodded.

* * *

"Very well laid out." Rivka ben-Devorah observed. "A lot of thought went into this. These three farmhouses are laid out so they cover each other. Interlocking fields of fire. They're on a sort of raised flat hill. Anybody attacking, let's say a full Zulu impi, has to cross that drainage ditch, the deep one, at the bottom. Then go uphill. Those fruit orchards mean an attacking army has to break formation. Or else pile up in the gaps between the orchards."

"Oranges, lemons, limes." Aaron said. "Some nice apples, too."

She nodded.

"Fruit, yes. Orchards with closely- planted trees. The gaps between them kind of funnel down the closer you get to the buildings. Which are overlooked by the sort of defensive fence where you could have a lot of people with crossbows. _And_ each of the three farmhouses has a big armoury in the cellar. I looked."

She looked across at Aaron.

"Sorry. Keep forgetting you're not an Assassin. This must be boring you."

"Not at all." he said, politely. "And the main working buildings over there can be closed off by dropping wagons and mealie bags in the spaces between buildings. That seems to be the local default position for defending against Zulus. Build a Redoubt with a firestep and concentrate your firepower."

"It worked at Lawkes' Drain." she said.

"Exactly." Aaron said. "you'd have thought somebody on the Zulu side might have worked out by now that the best tactic is to bring even better firepower, and besiege the place. Not to keep charging it with human waves."

She looked at him.

"Look. Does it worry you at all that I'm an Assassin?" she asked, curiously.

He shrugged.

"Gevalt, why should it? There isn't a contract out on me as far as I know, and I've done nothing to annoy you. So far as I know."

Rivka smiled. This guy was, in some indefinite sort of way, _different_. She liked _different_. She thought of Mariella.

 _She'll be OK. If I guessed right, I might get my crossbow back within the next day or two._

* * *

Later that afternoon, as the agricultural day wound down and evening dinner beckoned, people made their way back to the central living buildings to eat and rest.

And the expected Welfare Officer from Cenotia arrived to make herself known to her people.

Rivka, walking back with Aaron, pulled up short.

"Oi VEY!" she exclaimed, alarmed. She took a step back.

The woman who'd just climbed down from the cart patted her rigidly coiffed blonde hair. She held her arms out to Rivka.

"SCHMOOPIE!" she exclaimed, delighted to see her.

Mariella Smith-Rhodes suppressed a snicker. Yenta Goldberg had caught up with her problem case.

 _ **To be continued in what will be positively the last chapter. Hooray, a completed story. After that – other tales to finish…**_

* * *

 **(1)** I know. Subtle reference to that bloody song.

 **(2)** the _**L-Space Wiki**_ says this about the Assassins' Fair: The Assassins' Fair is one of the rich traditions and customs of the Assassins' Guild of Ankh-Morpork. It is held monthly on the night of the full moon, and is an opportunity for graduate and student Assassins to trade in new and unavoidably second-hand items of stylish clothing, well-crafted working tools and weapons, maps, information, and other peripheral items pertinent to the trade of Assassin. As described in _**The Compleat Discworld Almanack,**_ it is held in the upper floors and the top of the old bell tower at Five Ways, and entry is selective. The casual visitor is discouraged by the fact the ground floor doors are firmly barred and any visitor must gain admittance by edificeering up the side of what is acknowledged to be a moderately difficult climb. This weeds out casual visitors and most non-Assassins. (Thieves' Guild members, who share many common skills and use an overlapping range of equipment, _may_ be welcome so long as their intention is to buy and not steal). This parallels Roundworld practice among military and paramilitary elites, where the equipment and possessions of deceased members tend to be informally auctioned off among their peers, as both a fitting send-off and to ensure those trade tools are not defiled by falling into the hands of those outside the family.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, impacting inspiration particles, and possibly cryptic explanations of references in the text.** _ **Somewhere**_ **in the text but not necessarily** _ **here**_ **. They may relate to a chapter of this work which is not this immediate one or represent one existing in potential L-Space which is yet to be written. They may even be random jottings and ideas to inspire other stories. Time and L-Space are not linear. Strange things happen.**

 **UPDATE:-**

 **Hot damn, the model I discovered on the Internet who is the living walking face of Mariella Smith-Rhodes appears to have made it to TV. She's on the adverts for the Very clothes catalogue firm, apparently. And I still don't know her name so as to do a better search…**

 **Thanks to reader ivanthemostlysane, who came up with a name: Brazilian-based model Cinthia Dicker.**

 **We discussed the hazards of searching for photosources online and the sort of searches that can be misinterpreted.**

 **By George, I think he's got it. Thank you!**

 **Pictures of Cinthia (currently around thirty) in a plain unscrubbed natural manner without excessive makeup or hairstyling - especially "younger" shots - are very definitely my Mariella as I see her. Thank you!**

 **Harder to tell on Lucy, and I suspect Johanna might have definite thoughts on the issue - somewhat distracting - but I can see from some head-and-shoulders shots where your mind is going. Bit hard to justify a photosearch on a shared computer!**

 **Although there is at least one adult movie actress who has a vibe for a Lady T'Malia, in some shots; one of the older ladies who apparently does the "mature" circuit. Not a complete match, though: although I did get interesting reference shots of her doing "historical" porn as a Southern Belle in American Civil War settings, with all that implies. Old-time South Africans would not have appreciated the consequent shennanigans very much. And... period dress and hairstyles, modern underwear. You have got to love the cheesiness of porn -not the mechanics of it, which get a bit "groundhog day" after the first five minutes. But those set-ups, such plot and "acting" as there is; You-Tube has an impressive selection of the intros where the most unlikely and "you have got to be kidding me!" scenarios are set up to justify the consequent action.**

 **My (possible) Lady T'Malia is a lady called Magdalene St Michaels. A British actress in the murky Seamstress-tinged underworld of American porn: over fifty, stately, elegant, somewhat attractive for her age but one who will never be forty-something again despite a degree of cosmetic intervention, and who, for our purposes, has all the acting ability of a large thick plank of wood. Even by porn intro standards (let's face it: they're not hired to actually** _ **act**_ **) she is a magnificently, stupendously, unbelievably, bad actress with one characterisation: that of constipated discomfort. But you can look at her in period clothing and think - you know, she's not a bad fit for T'Malia.**

 **I recommend You-Tube's galleries of porn movie intros (they have to cut out before the sex really starts, for obvious reasons) as something with the power to really cheer you up on a grey day. They can be howlingly, inadvertently, hilarious. (There's another older lady called Nina Hartley who is genuinely funny for all the right reasons - she also goes against type and shows signs of being a good actress, had she gone into the "respectable" business. You get the feeling she's realised how ludicrous it all is and she's taking the opportunity to send it up and take the piss. Not a very good match for Davinia Bellamy - I have found better - but just now and again, Nina H presents as a slightly mumsy bespectacled blonde of a certain age, with the right aura...)**

 **Apparently there was a long-running South African childrens' TV show called The Little Witch. ( _Die_** _ **liewe heksie** ) _**I read about it and borrowed a couple of its catchphrases to see if this obscure detail gets noticed...** _  
_


	35. The end of the road for now

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Five; A Definite End. For now.**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **It's the end of the line and the rest of everybody's life begins here. In which the story resolves itself and new horizons beckon.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Early Ick, in The Year of The Determined Squirrel. Caarp Town.**_

The dining room at Jacarinthia House was hosting a small-ish formal dinner for maybe twenty people. Formal dress had been insisted upon. This had been a worry for two of the guests, but their hostess, Lady Mary Smith-Rhodes, had seen the problem and insisted they be fitted out by her personal dressmaker in Caarp Town.

"Oh, don't worry about the cost. Small change, and Charles can afford it. He realises you need to look the part, both of you. I'll say to put it all on my account. Little gift to you both. You can't be expected to have lugged evening dress with you all the way from Cenotia on the off-chance. I'm sure the Guild School taught you how to wear it for formal do's like this. Get your hair tidied, get good shoes, that's important. I can sort out some bits of jewellery, on loan of course, to accessorise with. You'll both knock them dead, you're pretty enough!"

Maids in the service of the Smith-Rhodes family had helped dress them both.

"I can put up with living like this." Rivka ben-Devorah remarked. "And I wouldn't believe it, but _you_ kind of scrub up well, Mariella!"

Mariella looked at the reflection of her made-up face and had to agree. She wasn't one, temperamentally, for makeup or fussy hairstyling. She was a stranger to high-end clothing. She was in full agreement with her sister Johanna that if you had to, you had to, but most of the time don't be a fool to yourself, dress practically and comfortably, and a little squirt of something in the problem areas after bathing was usually a sufficiency. That and good foot powder.

But tonight was the sort of night where you had to make an effort. There was no getting around it. And the other end of the Smith-Rhodes clan was _that_ sort of place.

"Remind me again what the occasion is." Rivka said, thoughtfully preening.

"Cousin Cecil getting elevated to Bishop." Mariella said. "Cousin Julian's other brother. You met James in Cenotia, remember."

"Gevalt, yes. Nice enough guy, but you can see Julian got all the brains and all the talent. Whoever decides these things must have been saving it all up for the youngest son."

A maid stifled a laugh. She tried to look deferential and respectful again.

"That's okay, we understand." Mariella reassured her. She turned to Rivka.

"Cecil's the middle brother. No interest in politics or in going into the family business of general interference and making lots of money. He wanted the Church."

"Ah. Bit of a Lamister, is he?"

"A _lot_ of a Lamister." Mariella agreed. Mr Lamister had apparently been an ineffectual teacher of the old school, in the old Master Greetling sense. The Assassins' Guild School had had to forcibly retire him with a compensation payoff and a "Look, old chap, this isn't really working out…" talk. It had been held to be bad for the look of the thing if the pupils were to succeed in actually _killing_ a teacher. It might give them ideas, for one thing. Set a bad precedent. Lamister had retrained as a priest and was just as hapless and ineffectual in this role. **(1)**

"It's like the first two were _practice_." Mariella said. "To find out what not to do, and not to repeat it. Then it all came together on the third. Cousin Julian."

One of the maids snickered again, and tried to correct herself. Mariella turned and smiled, kindly.

"We really don't mind, you know. You _are_ allowed to laugh." she said.

"Thank you, madam. Er. Mister Julian. You know him?"

"Well. It's a real shame he's not here." Mariella said. Rivka seconded this.

The black maid looked shy and uncertain, and then plucked up courage.

"How is he getting on? Many of us miss him. He is nice and kind and clever."

Mariella reflected on Julian's necessarily discreet liaison with Ruth N'Kweze, and wondered if the Uncle Baal streak ran down _this_ side of the family too. _No. Julian isn't mad. Not in this country. He isn't Uncle Baal. Julian has a glittering future and too much to lose._ She paused, and added _I think, anyway._

She obliged with a few personal reminiscences of a cousin from this side of the family who she genuinely liked, admired and respected. She very carefully left Ruth out of it. Her tale of the night, when Mariella and Rivka had only been thirteen, when they had all fought a life-or-death battle on the same side, drew enthralled gasps **.(2)**

"Remember me to him, madam." the maid said, with a wistful air. "Mary M'Puto."

And then the dinner gong rang, and Mariella and Rivka were descending the grand staircase, each wearing what Mariella estimated to be perhaps twenty or thirty thousand dollars worth of borrowed diamonds and sapphires and things. The sort of exquisitely understated jewellery that advertises "I have both money and good taste."

And then they went to dinner with some of the _real_ movers and shakers in Rimwards Howondaland.

* * *

 _ **A few weeks earlier in Piemberg. Glimpses of family life.**_

Two other members of Johanna's family party were also involved in the everyday chores of farming. They had assisted the farmhands in rounding up and penning a group of young bull calves for some rather bespoke personal attention. That had been interesting, and in a way, fun.

Now under the attentive eye of Agnetha Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande, they were learning how to do the next necessary thing. But both were Assassins' School students and both came from agricultural families. They had previous experience, and, as they cheerfully remarked to each other, this might even be a _transferable skill_ sometime in the future. You never knew your luck.

"What's the thing with Mariella?" Emma Roydes asked, as she deftly roped a young bull calf and brought it crashing down, immobilised by the rope around its hooves. Grinning farmhands who were there to assist expressed approval at her technique. But Emma had grown up near Scrote, daughter of farm labourers, and was used to this sort of thing. She'd learnt to do similar to piglets and yearling lambs.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande quickly helped immobilise the calf and helped prepare the necessary place for their bespoke attention. Her mother looked on with quiet pride and approval.

"Ag. Tannie Mariella's walking around like a fart in a tin can. You know. Sort of aimlessly and feeling like she's suddenly a bad smell in a confined space. Her best friend's found a boyfriend. She's the spare. She isn't liking it very much. You'd be as bad if it were me, Piles."

"Or if it was me and _you_ were the gooseberry." Emma retorted. "Grab those back legs, would you? I don't want it kicking out."

"Show some understanding." Agnetha said to her oldest daughter. "It could be _you_ one day. I'll speak to Mariella, when I get five minutes. Now remember what I showed you on the first one?"

The calf mooed in pain, discomfort and a lot of aggrieved resentment. Twice.

"Oh. You did. Well done." Agnetha said, blinking. She remembered her daughter was an Assassins' School student, as was her friend… well, more than a friend. Sort of family. _Of course_ they'd figure out how to do this and what the tools were for. _And_ they'd do this necessary small task quickly and cleanly and well. Without flinching.

There was the soft _plop-plop_ of two things dropping into the bucket provided. Nothing got wasted on a farm. Sosetjies beckoned, or perhaps a treat for the dogs.

Emma reflected, looking down on her suddenly bloody hands and feeling no revulsion. Surplus bulls had to be made into oxen sometime, and best it was done now while they were young, and hadn't had a chance to realise what they were losing.

"Hey, Johanna. This is a neat tool." **(3)**

She held up the castrators.

"I wonder if this could be a trade skill. You know. Part of the working kit for dealing with men."

Agnetha smiled slightly.

"Take it from me. _That_ device wouldn't need to be so large."

The three laughed together. A couple of male farmhands tried not to look uncomfortable but still felt their knees closing in self-defence.

Emma looked up into the warm Howondalandian sun and smiled contentedly. This beat a rainy cold early winter in Ankh-Morpork hands-down. Just hanging around School during the hols with nothing much to do **.(4)** She assisted Young Johanna in tidying up the operation site, then released an unsteady-on-its-hooves newly-minted bullock and called for the next one. She clicked the castration tool experimentally. The sound of the metallic clinking made a farmhand visibly wince. It had a horribly _definite_ ominousity to it.

* * *

Meanwhile, the Welfare Officer to the Cenotian farming students had settled in. Barbarossa, amused and somewhat in awe of the force of Nature who had arrived on his plaas (although he'd never admit to being in awe) had allowed her a spare room in the main house. He was uncomfortably aware that she had made friends with his wife, and did the only thing a sane man could do in those circumstances, which was to get well out of it and find lots of things to busy himself with on the more remote corners of his domain. Right now, his wife's kitchen, always an independent fiefdom, was not his territory at all.

"That bloody woman's a _heksie._ " he announced. Ponder Stibbons, who dealt with witches professionally, patted him on the back. It was good to be able to get one back occasionally.

The group of men bent over the growing hole in the ground.

"Well, the earth's getting damper." Kurt Maaijandie remarked, watching the latest black labourer coming up from the excavation with a large bucket of spill to add to the mound. "Something's down there."

"Ja." Barbarossa agreed. He leant on his spade. He'd been pitching in with the digging alongside the blacks. "Better not have too many of those fellows down there when they break through."

He looked round to the expanse of dry, arid, unpromising land. It was easier to deal with than Yenta Goldberg. More familiar. He knew where he was with land.

And then the first trickle of water began. The black labourers scrambled to get out of the way as the hole began filling.

Barbarossa bellowed with exultation and slapped Ponder on the back so hard he nearly fell over.

"You bloody wizards are actually _useful_!" he roared. "Saved me a few thousand rand! And we can get this land _working_! Kurt, we need to shore up, make good, and get a windmill over this to pump the blessed stuff up!"

He turned and smiled genially at the labourers.

"And _you_ fellows get a beer and a bonus!"

There was general happiness. Mister Barbarossa worked you hard, but he was a good baas. Everyone knew that.

Ponder Stibbons sighed, ruefully. Water divining was a specialised wizard skill and he hadn't been too sure he could do it. He also knew a good water-diviner could command a fee in excess of a few thousand dollars. Water was valuable in places where there wasn't too much of it. But he thought about his father-in-law's likely reaction to an invoice. Better leave this one pro-bono, then… after all, this was _family_.

Ponder picked himself up. All that time spent working on Disc hydrostasis with HEX had been good for _something_ practical, then. He hadn't been sure at all, but the folds and convolutions of the land had suggested a likely place to find an underground aquifer. He'd mapped that against what he remembered of theoretical lines of flow under the Disc surface and what he'd read about water tables and the "reach" of a river, which went a long way around what you actually saw on the surface. Just geology, really, and not much practically applied magic, apart from a bit of guided intuition and possibly a heartfelt prayer. You _could_ call it geomancy, if you stretched it. But it had worked.

Water was now flowing where no river had flowed nor rains fell. And just in time for Hogswatch, too.

"Well, if the Goldberg woman's real reason for visiting was to put pepper into young Rivka's guava concerning finding a man, she'll go away happy." Barbarossa remarked.

Kurt Maaijandie nodded.

"Nice meisie. Provided you don't annoy her. Plenty of pepper in that guava already. Red Python chili pepper."

Barbarossa nodded thoughtfully.

"A good man, young Aaron. Thoughtful. Hard worker. Knows how to manage people. Hope he's not out of his depth with that one!"

They looked at the cart, loaded with prefabricated parts for building a wind-driven water pump. It would be good to be able to make a start on building it before nightfall.

* * *

At about the same time, Yenta Goldberg and the older Agnetha Smith-Rhodes were bonding. It was the sort of bonding that betokened bad news for somebody somewhere.

They passed through the rich vein offered by Daughters, Shortcomings Of. This necessarily took time. Mrs Goldberg commiserated with Mrs Smith-Rhodes about daughters working far away from home who only remembered to write back after several heavy prompts. Her own Erika was working as a singer and musician on the Central Plains. Does concerts in Ankh-Morpork and the other cities but too proud to use her own given name, calls herself Ricki Gold because it's _"not so Cenotian"_ , can you imagine? **(5)**

Yenta Goldberg and Agnetha Smith-Rhodes bonded in adversity. The Yenta got back to the point again.

" _Gevalt_. So your oldest only got round to marrying when she was _nearly thirty_?"

This was positively geriatric, by anybody's standards. Agnetha looked serious and frowned sadly. Yenta Goldberg reached over and patted her on the arm.

"Your people need Yentas." she said. Agnetha sighed and nodded agreement.

"It worked out alright in the end. She got a better husband than she deserved, and two fine little girls. They're here. You'll meet them. I tell Mariella. _Do not leave it as long as your sister did._ Don't think she'll listen, though."

Agnetha signalled to the maid to pour some more tea. Usually she did this for herself, but Johanna had thought to bring a girl with her. In her opinion this should not be wasted, and the girl was on her employer's paid time. Best to find Eve something to do while she was here. Eve served the tea promptly. She'd dealt with the woman she knew as The Old Madam before **. (6)**

"I'm sorry you had a wasted trip. Getting here, to find Rivka seems to be coming to her own arrangements with a fellow."

Yenta Goldberg smiled blissfully.

"Oh, no! That's _success_. My little Schmoopie evidently listened to everything I've been telling her! I'm proud of her. He's a good boy. Farm management's a profession. Not the _usual_ one, but a profession. When he goes back to Cenotia, he has a career in front of him. A good boy, of good family. Temple-going, and he knows what's expected"

She paused.

"When I took this assignment for the government, I not only got free travel and expenses. I got to read the reports on people. Find out about them. My work here may be done!"

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes smiled slightly.

"Well. While you're here, you might want to have a little word with Mariella? As a favour? When Danie and Heidi get wed, she's the last one. If she's taking her example from her sister Johanna, I _worry_ about her."

"The one who was single till she was thirty." Yenta Goldberg said. She winced. The existence of thirty-year-old spinsters was a professional insult to her. Agnetha nodded, grimly.

She rubbed her hands together. She _appreciated_ a challenge. She liked being needed.

The conversation moved on to Failings of Husbands. Agnetha sympathised with the information that Mr Goldberg needed to be prompted to go and actually put trousers on, if guests were expected. She remarked that Andreas can get like that sometimes. If it wasn't for us they'd be perfectly content to live in _caves_.

* * *

Mariella Smith-Rhodes was getting it out of her system on a long horse-ride with her sister Johanna. It bonded them; both loved to ride. And the children were safe with Annaliese.

"Still feeling put out?" Johanna asked.

Mariella nodded.

"And you're feeling guilty because it makes you look like a selfish unreasonable cow. You can't make a fuss because you should be feeling happy for your best friend. But you've still been displaced."

Mariella sighed.

"Look, you've spent the best part of a year and a half crossing this continent. The two of you are close. You got even closer. And now it's all over, real life is getting in the way. Rivka, in the nicest possible way, is indicating she doesn't need you around so much and she's moving on. Making you feel like a spare part. It was bound to happen sometime. And anyway, you've got to sign your name on the recruitment form pretty soon. You'd have parted anyway."

Johanna smiled sympathetically at her sister.

"Listen. My best friend at school was Katerina de Mauritz. She still is, in so many ways. Do you think I didn't spend a few years being the one who got ignored, because all the guys were after the gorgeous blonde one? She started with boyfriends a _long_ time before I did. So I got displaced too. One of life's lessons, Mariella."

"Thank you." Mariella said, after a while, wondering why her eyes were wet and stinging. She and Rivka would still be friends, she knew, but something had changed, and it would never be the same again. Adjusting to a new reality was hard.

Johanna shoulder-hugged her sister.

"There'll be somebody." She said. "That's if you're looking, and for all I know you aren't. Yet."

* * *

And a lone rider approached the Smith-Rhodes plaas from the direction of the Piemberg road. He rode with a certain resolution, knowing that the informal law of hospitality meant he could at least claim a bed for the night before riding back in the morning.

He still wasn't sure why he was riding out. There was a job to do, yes, but why it meant that he had had to spend the best part of three days on the road out of Pratoria to discharge one little obligation when he could have posted the item, or otherwise sent it along the informal network of boer people who all looked out for each other… he didn't know what sort of reception he'd get. He shrugged, said " _Insh'Offler"_ to himself, and rode on.

Eventually he saw buildings in the distance and people working in the fields. He leant down from his horse and asked a black fieldhand

"Am I now in the Smith-Rhodes plaas?"

"Ja, baas. Keep riding straight on for two or three miles. This is all Mister Barbarossa's plaas, all around you."

"Dankie!" the rider replied, courteously.

After a while he arrived at the central farmhouse complex. A woman was shepherding some young children in the garden. He took off his hat and addressed her respectfully as _mevrou._

She welcomed him.

"Come on in. You've come a long way? I'll get somebody to see to your horse. Fix you a drink. I'm Cornelia Smith-Rhodes, by the way. My husband's out on the land, but he should be home soon. You can leave the crossbow in the hall? It'll be safe there. The children know not to touch."

"Dankie." he said, and introduced himself.

Cornelia Smith-Rhodes looked at him with scrutinising amusement.

"Well, come on in, then. You're welcome."

* * *

Evening meal was held for Family at the main farmhouse. It had to be a big room and a big table to accommodate a lot of Smith-Rhodes family members, with younger children displaced to a table of their own where Annaliese volunteered to preside. But everyone fitted in.

Rivka was eating with the Cenotians in the guest-hall; this made sense for religious reasons. In the main the guest students organised their own kosher kitchen. Apparently Yenta Goldberg had taken it over this evening to do some home cooking. She had _insisted_. It gave her a chance to look over the couples and the romances that had inevitably formed, casting a Yenta's professional eye over them with guidance to follow.

Mariella sighed and reasoned it gave her friend more Aaron-time. She felt conflicted: happy for Rivka, jealous of Aaron. This made her feel like a true heel. Especially since try as she might, she could find no fault with her friend's choice.

But this was a joyous family thing: everybody except Danie together in the same place, which didn't happen often. Danie had sent regretful apologies via Johanna. He'd have loved to come, but a big game on against the Barbarians **.(7)** And Heidi was on call to cover residential students at the School during the holiday. Some other time, huh? Love to big sister, middle sister, baby sister and big bro.

Barbarossa accepted this. He followed his younger son's adventures through the newspaper back pages and expressed satisfied pride that in his own way, he was making an impact. Often with full force on the field of play, going by the papers.

"Sending him to the City was the making of him." he announced. "Got the same streak as his sisters, but unless he's really unlucky, he's not likely to get himself killed. Lots of young women chasing him, too."

His wife glared at him.

"But only _one_ of them's getting him." she reminded him. "Johanna, find out how near Heidi is to a wedding? That poor girl's been waiting too long as it is."

Barbarossa turned his attention to one of the younger guests at table. He switched language to Morporkian as a kindness to her. She had been trying to follow the conversations in Vondalaans; her friend Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande had been intermittently explaining words and meanings and associations to her when she found it hard going.

To everyone around the farm, a young girl with the right sort of flaming red hair who _looked_ like a Smith-Rhodes, but who had a Sto Plains accent and was only imperfectly fluent in Vondalaans, was an interesting phenomenon.

"How are you liking your stay with us, young meisie?" Barbarossa asked. "I heard good reports about you two meisies, end how well you're fitting in."

"Sir, I really like it here." Emma Roydes said. "I'd love to come back and stay for longer."

"Ag, you'd earn your keep." Barbarossa said. "Johanna says you're a country girl?"

Emma explained about her life and upbringing in Scrote, around cabbages, largely grown on land other people owned, and the family smallholding, too small to sustain a large family and even this only rented. She had been picked out as having talent, and had become a scholarship pupil at the Assassins Guild School where she'd been in the same dorm, Raven House, as her friend Johanna.

"Your femily do not own the land they work." Barbarossa said. He shook his head. "Et least, I'm betting they own it in every respect except the name on the title deeds. Ag, they'd have more claim than the ebsentee owner who takes the rent."

Emma decided not to dwell on the more unpleasant aspects of being a penniless scholarship girl at the Assassins' School. Her family sent such money as they could spare, but it was intermittent. Then Miss Lansbury had called her to the office to say she could now benefit from a small and regular sum of pocket money, to be disbursed each week as usual. "No, the person who is paying this has asked to remain anonymous. I'm permitted to say the same benefactor might pay for costs of trips and extracurricular activities, so that you aren't disadvantaged."

She'd discovered her benefactor was Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes, at around the same time she'd worked out the Other Thing. Invitations to accompany her friend Johanna Smith-Rhodes Maaijande to Wednesday evening dinner at Doctor Smith-Rhodes' home had followed. Among other things she'd met Rivka ben-Devorah there, a senior girl with a fearsome reputation, who had taken a liking to her and taught her informal skills for dealing with bullies and idiots.

Life had improved rapidly, and Emma Roydes had soon achieved Scary Mary status in her own right. Only very close friends had the privilege of calling her "Piles", for instance. And Rivka's friend Mariella Smith-Rhodes had suggested to her that when it came to selecting optional Saturday Morning classes, she could do worse than ask Miss van Kruger for admission to her Basic Vondalaans module. Emma had been learning Vondalaans for some time now. She was even a Bokkie Babe on a Saturday afternoon and had learnt _lots_ of the songs and chants. Some of them were even clean. Clean-ish, anyway.

Emboldened, Emma explained about her family history. How a great-great aunt called Mary Roydes had married a man called Cecil Smith. Who'd emigrated to Howondaland and changed the name to Smith-Rhodes. And, er…

Barbarossa looked at her with benevolence.

"End your side of the femily remained over there. Till now. Well, you're here now. Better late than never, I say!"

"Well, that explains why she looks like one of us." Agnetha Smith-Rhodes remarked. "Because she _is_ one of us!"

"Think ebout emigrating." Barbarossa advised her. "I'm guessing you're feeling the call right now."

He grinned.

"And we do not normally speak Morporkian. Nobody will make the obvious joke as in our language, the word is _Aambeie._ Which sounds nothing like "Emma Roydes". The joke would not even occur to people."

Emma considered this, and smiled.

"I think I like the idea more and more. Thank you." she said. She added "Dankie."

Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes shook her head. She looked at her pupil with sympathetic eyes.

"You do realise once you're in this Femily, you are in for keeps?" she said. It sounded halfway to being a warning.

And then Cornelia Smith-Rhodes arrived, bringing a guest.

"Sorry I'm late. This young man turned up. Can we fit in another chair somewhere and make room for him?"

Mariella sat bolt upright.

It was Horst Lensen.

She tried not to glare too darkly at him.

"Hello, Mariella." he said, politely.

* * *

"No, really." Horst said, later, "I wanted to give Rivka her crossbow back, And to thank her for the loan. I believe I now know why she told me I'd need more than one shot. The second dummy behind the door. Representing an enemy in concealment."

"Oh, so you worked _that_ one out, then?" Mariella said, still feeling cross and put on the spot in front of her family. There had been a few knowing grins and nudges when Horst had walked in and greeted her.

"So not a complete _pielkop_ then, But maybe still _jou bliksem_."

She tried to make it sound scathing. And realised she'd failed utterly. This didn't help her temper.

They walked on together. Mariella tried to put the traitorous thought out of her head that there might be something slightly romantic in this. A man who wasn't – these days – _completely_ objectionable had cared enough to ride several hundred miles. Ostensibly to return a loaned weapon, but mainly to get to see her.

Hmmph. Tall. Blonde. Well-sculpted face. Muscly lean body. Hmmph. As if _that_ was enough. And an unexpectedly likeable person was emerging after the traumas of his last year. And they'd fought side-by-side. At Smithville and the river. Johanna had said you really get to know somebody, after an extreme like that.

They ran into Yenta Goldberg, who was coming the other way.

She shrieked with delight to see Mariella with a young man, and within seconds had got Horst to talk about himself.

"Sweetie! Now let me look at you! I can't call you a Schmoopie, that's taken, so I want to see if you're a Poochums or a Huggie. No, I'd say you're a Poochums. Let me explain. All my little let-me-be-your-Yenta talks to my Schmoopie Rivka have worked, and she's been sensible, and found herself a nice man in a profession. My work there is done! Now your mother, such a lovely lady, you should listen to her more than you do, she has suggested I spend time with you, and put you on the right pathway in life. And what do you know, I'm here for two days still, so I can give you all my attention, Poochums!"

Horst Lensen excused himself after a while. He walked on, saying he'd catch up to Mariella later.

A little later he walked into Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes.

"A little word, boy." he said, curtly.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes heard her father's voice from a long way away. Her father had never quite got the hang of _discreet_.

She paused to listen. Assassins can move silently and inobtrusively.

"Now see here, boy. I heard about you. You were in the papers. You stood alongside my girl and fought for her and maybe that means there's something to give you credit for. But I asked Johanna about you. What you were like when she taught you. I'm telling you now, boy, there are things I do _not_ like about you.

"If you _ever_ go running to those bastards at BOSS with tales about my family. Believe me, I will get to hear of this! And if you do, if you are so stupid or ill-advised as to do that thing, I will _personally_ tear the skin off your back and braid it into a sjaemboek. Are you hearing me? Then I will come back and use it to thrash your bare bones with!"

"I hear you, sir. And I understand your point of view."

Lensen, thought Johanna. Scared of Father, and who wouldn't be, but standing his ground and not being terrified.

"And another thing, boy. My daughters are gold and silver and diamonds to me. I do not let just _any_ hopeful fellow near any of them. Behave in such a way that it causes hurt or upset to Mariella, who is the youngest of my children, and you had better PRAY that I only tear your skin off and make it into a whip to lash your bones with, do you hear me? I can't stop her courting you if that's her wish, but I _can_ make my feelings clear, as a concerned father."

Johanna decided to intervene.

"Hi, Vatti. Having a quiet man-to-man talk with young Horst, are you?"

Her father grinned at her. He made a show of patting Horst on the shoulder.

"Now think on concerning what I've just said, young man, and we'll say no more of it. For now."

"Thank you for expressing your concerns, sir. I now know where we both stand in the matter."

"You'd _better_." Barbarossa said. He waited while Lensen walked away, trying not to look too shaken up.

Johanna waited till he'd moved on.

"He's not _that_ bad, Vatti. I believe he really has changed. He doesn't want to join BOSS any more, for one thing. And I'm getting the impression he really is very fond of Mariella. He's just ridden gods know how many hundreds of miles just to see her, for one thing."

Her father grunted. Johanna pointed out that Hans Dreyer himself, the legendary Crowbar, had seen something there that made him write a personal reference. She didn't remind her father Mariella had also received a similar invitation.

"He's got to do National Service too, Vatti. The odds are they'll be training a long way apart from each other." She crossed her fingers at this point. "Not many opportunities over two years. After that they're both two years older and wiser."

Her father accepted this. He calmed down.

"Maybe you're right, Johanna. While I was shouting in his face he stood his ground. Scared, yes. But not shifty or guilty. There might be a decent young fellow in there."

"Sleep on it tonight, Vatti?" Johanna suggested.

* * *

Over the next few days, Mariella spent a lot of time with Horst Lensen, mainly doing the many things demanded around a working farm. He proved himself competent, hard-working and even good company. To her surprise, she found herself liking it.

Although she still addressed him as _jou bliksem_. Some things were ingrained habit.

They even attended a farewell braai together, attending as a foursome with Rivka and Aaron, the night before the Pegasus and flying carpet arrived to craw-step Johanna's family party back to Ankh-Morpork.

A week or two after that, Mariella and Rivka decided to complete the final leg of their trek, down to Caarp Town and the sea.

To nobody's great surprise, a clacks message arrived from Uncle Charles saying he would be honoured if the two famous adventuresses stayed as his house-guests.

"You'd better go, then." Barbarossa said, practically. "Cousin Charles doesn't easily take "no" for an answer. See life at the other end of this bloody Family."

* * *

 _ **Early Ick, in The Year of The Determined Squirrel. Caarp Town.**_

The formal dinner had included current and retired politicians, a banker or two, and other dignitaries from the high end of Society. It also included two Assassins who had dressed up for the evening. Assassins were encouraged to attend this sort of event, if only to meet people who could afford to pay for contracts on other people. And to research the sort of people who might find themselves subject to contracts.

Mariella and Rivka found themselves sitting on either side of a sprightly old man who was honoured to meet them. He was also the retired President of Rimwards Howondaland. Mariella had met him twice, once at Johanna's wedding to Ponder and once when he'd visited Ankh-Morpork in conditions of great secrecy and visited her in hospital **.(8)**

Louis van Baalsteufel had lost none of his charm and affability. Or his perceptive mind.

"Always knew you were going to be something special." he said to Mariella. "Looks like I was right!"

Uncle Charles, tall, distinguished, hawk-like and looking every inch the multi-millionaire, presided with smooth geniality. He reminded the assembled company that the events the young ladies precipitated in Smith-Rhodesia had provoked much coverage in the Press and indeed lots of conversations in select circles. A regular and much-repeated component of the commentary had been a sort of surprise that the founding family of Smith-Rhodesia seemed, in the main, not to want to live there and had apparently moved as far away as it could from a place still seen as _their_ nation.

"It's as if we apparently want to disown the place." Uncle Charles had said. "Well, as you know, my son Cecil has recently been elevated to a bishopric, and the purpose of this dinner tonight is to recognise and to honour his achievement."

He nodded to his son, in purple shirt front and white clerical collar. The distinctions seemed painfully new. Mariella saw the red hair of her family, but a vaguely good-natured expression and an otherworldly air that otherwise was not a general Smith-Rhodes thing. She recalled that he'd been an academic cleric in the theology school at Witwatersrand University. Cousin Julian had said his unworldly brother had been packed off there to get him out of the public eye and into a place where he could cause least potential embarrassment. And who knows, he might even be happy there.

"I am pleased to announce that his Grace, Bishop Cecil Smith-Rhodes, is going to the most appropriate diocese possible. New Scrote, in Smith-Rhodesia. Ladies and gentlemen, Cecil Smith-Rhodes returns to his country."

Mariella looked at Rivka. She wondered how big a donation to the Church of Blind Io it took to arrange this happy outcome. Hughnon Ridcully was regarded as a very good fixer. If suitably incentivised.

 _(I'll probably add more filler here. This is interim just to close the story)_

* * *

And then Mariella and Rivka were on the beach at Caarp Bay, symbolically dipping their feet into the water to say – this is it, as far as it goes. We've run out of land. They paddled in the water, barefoot. It was a sort of symbolic moment.

"Where to next?" Mariella asked.

"We should do Aceria." Rivka said. "you know. Start at the Hub. Cross the country. Come out at Genua. Maybe even Californicatia."

"But not for a year or two yet." Mariella said. She had to return to Pratoria and sign up for her conscript service. She suspected it would lead her back to Smith-Rhodesia and the Slew. Horst Lensen might end up there too. It wasn't a _completely_ horrible thing to contemplate. _Bliksem_ though he was.

Rivka nodded.

"Write to me." she said. "If you're allowed."

They watched the sea, looking out to the distant Rimfall.

"And you?" Mariella asked.

Rivka shrugged.

"Got that offer from your Uncle Charles." she said. "Tempting. But you know Aaron's going back to Cenotia? They're going to give him a kibbutz to run. Rumour is that it might even be the one we got off the ground at Gemala. It'd be interesting to see it again. You know, see how everyone's getting on."

There was another meaningful silence.

"It was fun, though."

Mariella agreed.

"Definitely. It was fun."

They linked arms and watched the Rimfall.

 _ **And, subject to proviso concerning adding a few more bits at Uncle Charles's establishment in Caarp Town (left them out here as they would have been incidental to actually finishing this long rambling tale) that's it! Story finished! And now – to reviewing and maybe even finishing another tale or two….**_

* * *

 **(1)** Mr Lamister is a real character in canon. That indispensable reference source, _**the L-Space Wiki,**_ has this to say: Mister Lamister is a tutor and member of staff at the Assassins' Guild school. He appears in the Assassin's Diary, and on several of the student rules:

6\. Boys are strictly forbidden from teasing Mr Lamister.

12\. Boys are expressly forbidden to use Mr Lamister's door as a target.

15\. Boys may carve their initials once into their desk, and the leads on the roof of the Big School Building. Boys are emphatically not allowed to carve their initials on Mr Lamister's leg.

170\. No pupil is to attempt to walk like Mr Lamister.

Uniquely he does not have a subject area at the Guild School, and appears not to take classes. Neither is he assigned as the head of any student house.

From his appearance in the staff iconograph he looks to be a worried man, with a droopy moustache and small round glasses. He would appear to have suffered a nervous breakdown similar to Dr. A. A. Dinwiddie at Unseen University. While he is not able to perform his role, he has become a fixture, and it would be unthinkable, or seemingly so, to have him removed.

He may well have left the Guild and re-trained as a priest in the interim between the Assassins' Yearbook and _The Compleat Ankh-Morpork_. In _The Compleat Ankh-Morpork_ , in the _Places to Pray_ section, mention is made of the Reverend Lamister. On page 55, in "Rules for use of the Temple of Small Gods", Rule 13 reads:

 _No-one is allowed to tease the Reverend Lamister_.

On page 56 of TCAM, the Reverend Mr Lamister is allowed space of his own, to write a religious homily similar in its well-intentioned vagueness to a BBC Radio Four _Thought For The Day_ or a stereotypical Church of England sermon. He recounts an escalating catalogue of disasters in which, trying to free a utensil stuck in the kitchen drawer, he becomes more and more entangled in the draw and then the cupboard under the sink, so that he has to be physically extracted himself. He asks himself "What would Brutha Himself have done in these circumstances?" without coming to the obvious conclusion that even Brutha might have tried praying to Anoia, who doesn't even get mentioned _once_.

Maybe Mr Lamister is one of life's natural victims, and not even Anoia could resist sticking it to him?

 **(2** ) My tale _**Hyperemesis Gravidarum.**_

 **(3)** There are images online of Victorian/early 1900's veterinarian/stockbreeder tools for castrating large bovine, ovine and porcine creatures. They really do have an aura about them of the sort of specialised equipment an Assassin might select for those specialised jobs, calling for a degree of individualised, personally bespoke, attention to the needs of the client. Perhaps with prejudice.

 **(4)** Some explanation: knowing she'd got a contract in Howondaland, the privilege of Pegasus flight and craw-stepping to get her there, and permission to bring family, the older Johanna Smith-Rhodes had considered, then later in the evening while Annaliese and Eve were packing for the family, she'd taken a cab back to the School to speak to Gillian Lansbury about permission to take her niece home with her. She thought she might as well. Agnetha would want to see her daughter, after all. Young Johanna had been summoned to the Raven House office and the offer had been made; her housemistress Miss Lansbury was filling in the release forms authorising pupil absence in the care of her named guardian. Johanna had then asked why Gillian had brought out **two** sets of release forms. Gillian smiled. "Think about it, Johanna." she said.

Johanna thought, then kicked herself.

"You might as well. Everybody _thinks_ she's a Smith-Rhodes." Gillian said, helpfully.

Emma Roydes (refer to various stories in the _**Discworld Tarot**_ sequence), a Scholarship pupil from Scrote, would otherwise have been stuck in School for the week's holiday. It had been agreed this was for the best. After all, the early winter following Harvest and stubble-burning was a quiet time for farm labourers who didn't own the land they worked on, and from her parents' point of view, at least _one_ of their children was being housed with three square meals a day. One less mouth to feed. Gillian said she'd clacks the family to say their daughter had been offered a last-minute place on a trip that would be of great value to her education and would be in the care of a very experienced senior teacher. And given the circumstances, she ought to see Howondaland, don't you think? Johanna had agreed, feeling irritated she hadn't thought of it herself, and Emma had joined the family group.

 **(5).** Yes. This is lifted from an episode plot of _**The Goldbergs**_. Guilty.

 **(6)** _ **Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_ , in which among other things Johanna acquires servants.

 **(7)** The Barbarians were a tough side. A fifteen-a-side foot-the-ball team drawn from the Young Men's Pagan Association, who styled themselves on the heroes and adventurers of old. Their team captain was called Olaf Cohensgrandson, but as he pointed out, this was hardly exclusive. Cohen the Barbarian had left _a lot_ of descendants in the world.

 **(** **8)** _ **Hyperemesis Gravidarum**_ again.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for random out-of-sequence concepts, et c et c.** **Strange things happen. **

**This has no direct reference to any character in the tales so far. But this bad habit of checking out porn actresses for facial similarities to Discworld ladies as I envisage them. Gods help me. I discovered a porn star called Tanya Tate, in her possible early forties. The right sort of polished pneumatic qualities to her figure, possibly surgically enhanced. (Only "possibly"?) And she stands out by the dire standards of Los Angeles adult film casting for one reason.**

 **She's British. But not just any old British. She is indistinguishable from her L.A. sisters in the trade in every visible respect. But when she opens her mouth to speak – she's Scouse. From Liverpool. This is utterly bizarre in a WTF sort of way. Her accent must be erotically exotic to Americans, and let's face it, they buy 90% of the stuff.**

 **From over here… how can I break it to you, guys. The Liverpool accent has many charms. It's warm, it's homely, it's from the heart. But one thing it isn't, and that is an essential thing in this context, is erotic or sexy. Scouse has all the sex appeal of lukewarm gravy or stale cheese. It's the aural equivalent of socks with sandals. Imagine a young Cilla Black doing porn.** _ **("Surprise Surprise!**_ **")**

 **And listening to Tanya putting her heart into sounding sexy… the only thing I could think of which would be a worse passion-killer, anti-viagra (Argaiv?) would be a porn starlet from Birmingham. Or Staffordshire. And I bet having said that, there** _ **will**_ **be a porn queen on the L.A. circuit who's from Stoke or Solihull.**

 **Suggestion (non-porn) for Davinia Bellamy: Carenza Lewis, TV archaeology queen from "Time Team". Thank you to reader Space Anjl. A plain and quirkily attractive lady in her forties with blonde hair who spends her working life bent over holes in the ground with muck up to her elbows. This one makes me go "Hmmm"…**

 _Sproetjies_ (Afrikaans) - _Freckles_

 **Professional note on snake-sexing. They all look the same from outside. How can you tell? Err…** It's very difficult to sex a snake without sticking a metal prod up their cloaca (which should only be done by vets or herpetologists, as laymen risk hurting the poor snake). If it goes all the way in, it's a boy. If it gets about 1cm in before you hit something, it's a girl.


	36. Epilogue One: Ouch!

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Six – Epilogues to a Travelogue**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **I know. Can't stop fiddling. But a few after-images from shortly after the story ends with two girls paddling in the sea off Caarp Town…. a short to start you off. A glimpse of Assassins' School Life after Emma and Young Johanna get home. Tidied slightly.  
**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **_The Assassins' Guild School, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork. Raven House, one Sunday morning.**_

Miss Gillian Lansbury smiled and addressed the assembled students pleasantly. The Guild's Art Mistress had inherited the residential housemistress position from Johanna Smith-Rhodes when she had left to get married. Gillian had previously been a resident tutor at an exclusive girls' school in Überwald. She had previous experience. Several years running Raven House had made her an expert.

She looked down the dorm at the thirteen current Fifth Year pupils who shared the living space. They were all on the first year of the Black, training to become fully licenced Assassins. Seventeen others who had begun with them had either dropped out or elected to leave the School at the end of Fourth Year without Taking Black. Fifth Year pupils got a few extra privileges. But given what they were now training to become, they still needed close supervision.

"Good morning!" she said, cheerfully. "I won't keep you for long as you all have Chapel to attend later in the day. While I stress nobody is being accused of anything and we're not trying to catch you out in any way, we still have to do this once or twice a term. Just in case. I require you to empty your lockers and drawers and lay the items out on your beds, please. This is a routine locker inspection and if we all co-operate, we will get through this more quickly. Thank you."

It really was routine. Gillian was looking for unauthorised weapons and equipment items, or badly secured or unsanctioned kit. Teenage girls in a boarding school could develop feuds, rivalries and intense jealousies. Managing this in a school for Assassins, where such rivalries had lethal weaponry to hand, took careful and diligent supervision. Periodically reminding them that they were being watched was part of the standard procedure. All bladed and projectile weapons, when not in use, needed to be kept in a secure and locked personal armoury that was part of the wardrobe issued to each bedspace. Strictly no potions, chemicals or poisons were to be kept in personal space. This was held to be prudent.

Supported by several Upper Sixth Form prefects, Gillian hoped to get this routine check over very quickly and tick it off the checklist as having been completed for this month.

 _If any of them actually do have unauthorised weaponry, they'll have hidden it somewhere else and not in their bedspace areas. I know I would_ , she thought, as she passed down the dorm.

Several girls passed the check and were thanked for their co-operation.

Just to vary the routine, Gillian ran her fingers round the inside of a bedframe. Davinia Bellamy's husband was a prison officer who'd been really entertaining and informative about the sort of places where inmates concealed contraband. He'd explained a few of the usual tricks. But no. Nothing taped to the underside of the bed or on the inside of the frame. She wondered about dismantling a bed-head and shaking out the hollow struts. Just to make the point. Then decided not to. _Let's get this over quickly. It's Sunday. In theory a day off._

Then she arrived at Emma Roydes.

Gillian visually inspected the standard weaponry in the armoury. Good, all present, all meeting the specs, nothing extra, nothing unauthorised, secure lock, the sort of hinges that can't be dismantled or bypassed. Back of the cabinet secure. Good.

Then she looked down at the non-lethal Assassin equipment laid out on the bed. Every student needed such kit. There was something there she didn't recognise. It appeared to combine a spring-loaded grip and several sharp-looking serrated edges.

"Please explain this item, Miss Roydes?" Gillian asked, patiently. "I don't recognise it as an approved item of working equipment."

She lifted the implement and squeezed the hand-grip thoughtfully. The wicked-looking blades, some looking as if they were designed to puncture, others to hold firmly and then slice and chop, moved with almost organic fluidity. It looked like a surgical instrument of some kind, and she guessed it transmitted the power of her grip on the handles into greater force on the other side of the fulcrum.

"Please, miss. When we went to Howondaland during the hols. Johanna's mother bought them for us. As a thank-you and a souvenir. She thought we might be able to find a use for them."

"You have one too, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande?" Gillian asked.

Young Johanna, in the next bedspace, helpfully held hers up for inspection.

Gillian nodded. She noted at least one of the other girls in the dorm was fighting back a snicker.

"Please explain to me what this is actually _for,_ Miss Roydes?" she invited.

Emma suddenly looked eager to be helpful and informative.

"Please, miss. It's an agricultural tool. It gets used for one of those necessary jobs on a farm. When you're dealing with stock."

"Thet's important." young Johanna said, with a very straight face. "You have to do little tasks with livestock. To menage them properly."

"Well, maybe not so little." Emma said, thoughtfully. "you see, miss, on some farms you have to remove things from your cattle. You know. Safely and humanely. So they're easier to manage."

"Horns, on some kinds of kine." Young Johanna said, with a very straight face.

"Very important to take the horn away." Emma added.

"And this is used to take the horn off?" Gillian inquired. She flexed the implement again.

"In a manner of speaking, miss." Emma agreed.

Another girl snickered. Gillian started to feel like the butt of the joke.

"There is a different tool for de-horning, miss." Young Johanna said. "In the sense of removing the pointy things on a kine's head. Usually done when they are young stirks, end there is less to cut through. Less strain on your hand and muscle."

"Assume I do not have an agricultural background, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande." Gillian said. She was a city girl. Farming was foreign country to her. She preferred it this way. "Please demonstrate exactly what this implement is used for, in farming life?"

"Es you wish, miss." Young Johanna said. She stepped forward and gave a short presentation of exactly which end of the beast you operated on and how to do it. It was graphic with plenty of detail and hand gestures.

"This implement may also be used on pigs and sheep." she said. "Or to be strictly precise, on boars and rams. Ewes and sows are exempt, for en obvious reason."

"We did _loads_ when we were in Howondaland, miss." Emma said. "Lots of spring and early summer calves that were at the right age to cut. You only need one or two intact bulls on a farm. Helped to do a stallion too, but that needed a few big men to rope it down."

Gillian Lansbury tried not to let her mouth drop too far open. She shook her head.

"And your mother…"

"Bought two more sets of the device, miss. For us to take home as souvenirs. She thought for Essassins, they might have a professional use." Johanna said, helpfully.

Gillian took a long thoughtful look at the fearsome device.

"Well… it might need scaling down." she conceded.

"That's _exactly_ what Johanna's mum said, miss." Emma contributed. "Too big, apparently."

"Ja. Things could slip through end not be gripped firmly, Mutti said." Johanna confirmed.

There was a brief silence.

"Excuse me for a few moments." said Gillian Lansbury. "I won't be long."

She walked down the length of the dorm with immense dignity, left, and closed the door softly behind her.

A few seconds later, the Raven House fifth form heard the unmistakable sound of their Housemistress shrieking with uncontrollable laughter.

Then Gillian returned, having composed her features into something approaching official severity.

She handed the Device back to Emma.

"Lock this _securely_ in the armoire with your other equipment." she said. "You too, Miss Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande. I believe I can overlook this and exercise discretion. You will, of course, both write a short essay on the uses and possible adaptation of this thing for Guild use. Consult Matron Igorina for professional advice if you get stuck. She would be interested, I think."

"Thank you, miss." Emma and Johana said together.

* * *

no footnotes? Blimey. Slow day.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**


	37. In the Army now

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Seven – In The Army Now**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **I know. Still fiddling. Another after-story, this time Mariella.  
**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Fort Rapier Barracks, Piemberg Military District, The Transvaal**_

Dear Johanna

Dear Rivka

One letter for two people – saves time! (Johanna – pls can you iconocopy and send copy to Rivka for me? Dankie).

Well (deep sigh) I'm in the Army now. Putting up with the dreary inanity and occasional insanity of it all and attempting to be cheerful.

Being so near home is a calculated torture on their part, I think. I am in Piemberg – we can all smell the Jojo smell on the wind – but we are firmly told that we will not be allowed local leave until basic recruit training is over. One boy tried to go AWOL to see his family. He is in detention.

Home so near. I would have preferred to be posted to Bitterfontein or Simonstown on the other side of the nation, or even Smith-Rhodesia. Where there is no possibility of local leave with Family. Ah well.

My hair is a memory.

It is on the cutting room floor along with the hair of all the other girl recruits. Some wept. At least you warned me this happens and that it grows back quickly enough. That is a comfort. It may also be useful in jungle training. A torment in Urabewe was the way long thick hair in the jungle retains sweat and dirt and becomes foul very quickly. I have comforted other girls with this. At least it is now easy to manage and requires less shampoo. A lot less.

We are now ten weeks into the training. It is tiring, but manageable to one who has been seven years at the Guild School. Absurdly easy in some respects. I have been advised by my platoon commander, Captain Leydermann, to be discreet about my Assassin status. It would gain me no favours and anyway we are all equally Recruit. Or Worm, or Maggot. The word is _Roof_ , or _roofie_. Anyway, the many duties and obligations are, I suspect, designed to consume time and leave us with no space to be idle and reflect. The whole day, dawn till dusk, is occupied with activity, some of which is purposely senseless and inane.

I also learnt, or was reminded, not to make it seem easy. Or they notice.

One of the first things they did to us after issuing uniform and supervising our wearing it was to order us to run laps of the sports field. They call this the _boempie trek_. I saw when one of my peers gratefully stopped after completing the ordered five laps how the instructors pounced on him and demanded to know, with applied sadism, who had told him to stop, you keep running!

I kept running.

After thirty laps, only I and three others were still there. Others had fallen out and could not be kicked onto their feet again.

Then I heard shouts of

"You! _Sproetjies!_ Smith-Rhodes! Here! Now!"

I jogged unhurriedly to the call.

Kaporaal Klinkie, who I am coming to believe is insane, glared at me. She is a remarkably repulsive woman with little piggy unintelligent eyes.

"Finding it _easy_ , meisie? Not out of breath yet? Not stretching your abilities enough, are we?"

She scowled at me. Then indicated the backpack on the ground.

"Put this on, _meisie sproetjies_. Then keep on running till I tell you that you may stop!"

As you have guessed, it was full of bricks.

But this too is part of Assassin fitness training.

I played the game and gave her another eighteen full laps, then pretended staggering out-of-breath exhaustion. Well, it fooled Bill Bradlifrudd when he made me run longer distances in competitive races. I could perhaps have run as far again with a heavier pack. I didn't see why I should oblige them, however.

"Ah, the high-and-mighty Smith-Rhodes meisie is feeling it!" the delightful corporal announced. "No special treatment for the Smith-Rhodes' _here_ , Sproetjies!"

My nickname is Freckles, by the way. That or _Rooihare_ or even _Rooihare Met Sproetjies._ Or just _Rooikop._ The other girls call me _Sproet._ This is affectionate on their part and marks me as being accepted. Even though I am a high-and-mighty Smith-Rhodes full of airs and graces. One who needs a reality check after being acclaimed heroine in the newspapers. Several training NCO's have made this their stated intention, arguing that since I was a civilian maggot at the time, it doesn't count.

At least we eventually got to do bayonet practice.

Some of the girls with me are lamentable. This has been remarked upon by the depot NCO's, with some verbal inventiveness.

Thank Madame Emmanuelle for the thorough training in How To Stab, by the way. I reduced the dummy to straw and rags within a minute.

This rendered even the abominable Klinkie to speechlessness.

Then I was issued a broom and shovel and ordered to "clean up the mess." No "well done". Just "Clean it up, Sproetjie." Along with the phrase " _Sien jy daardie boom_?" which means, broadly, "You need correction." You are invited to see the tree quite a lot. _Raak de Draad_ means much the same.

They have also made me up to lance-bomb in charge of the barracks room. This entails having the responsibilities of a _korporaal_ with none of the rank. A thing I could do without, as the fitness of our barracks space to pass inspections and the shortcomings of some of my peers, are down to me. Officially.

Oh, and I briefly saw Father here. He was part of a group of _Volkskommando_ officers on some sort of briefing and training course. Officially Army officers are meant to be clean-shaven in uniform. But the _Volkskommando_ , the active Reserve, makes its own rules and nobody seemed to be in a hurry to tell Father to shave it off. Anyway, in uniform he is a Kolonel. Other officers treat him with great respect.

I was pointed out to him.

Father merely said

"Oh yes. Think I met her mother once or twice. Well, _five_ times."

Damn him.

I'll get this in the post as soon as I can. We are likely to be trusted with firing real crossbows soon. I must supervise Brianna Collins, who still appears unsure as to which end of the weapon is which. I think she is not cut out for military service and the kindest thing might be to discharge her and send her home.

With love and memories of better times when I had all my hair

Mariella

Dear Johanna

Thank you for the letter, which cheered me up immensely. I understand I need to put up with the insanity and the petty idiocy of it for twenty-two weeks and that it is a rite of passage. It will not, as you say, last for ever.

Ah well, twelve weeks in.

The abominable Kaporaal Klinkie is on sick leave, by the way. I was dismissed without charge by the captain after he investigated. He seemed amused. No almond slice was offered, nor sherry.

Well. She turned up one day with a Zulu shield and an assegai and said she was going to demonstrate how the enemy fought. And that she doubted any of we sorry cases would survive our first encounter with the enemy.

She then invited several members of our platoon to attempt to incapacitate or disarm her. The inevitable sadistic humiliations happened.

Then she beckoned me forwards.

"Sproetjie. Come and have a try."

I pretended ignorance.

"You wish me to attack you. Using all the guile and cunning at my disposal. To defeat and disarm you."

"Yes, that is _exactly_ what I wish you to do. Are you stupid as well as ginger-haired?"

"Just clarifying, corporal. You know. In front of everyone."

Well. She did say. And Ruth N'Kweze _did_ teach me thoroughly in how to fight against Zulus. And she wasn't a Zulu, just a fat ignorant zef dof two-liner.

A sergeant from a neighbouring squad intervened. He seemed amused, however, and remarked that I had seemed very eager to obey my order to the letter. I could not be faulted for enthusiasm or obedience to orders. He said as much later to Captain Leydermann.

Our corporal was stretchered away, and we were given foot drill to occupy our time.

After my interview with the Captain, it is now widely known as to which school I attended in Ankh-Morpork. It is not getting me any better treatment, but NCO's tend to be more thoughtful.

I am being awarded a Marksman's badge for proficiency with the crossbow. But really. Firing at static targets directly in front of you that do not shoot back. I've been doing this ever since I got my first crossbow at the age of five. (How is Bekki coming along? You mention you have taken her to The Butts to practice. To give her the education which would be delivered at Home by Father or our brother Andreas to our children.)

It appears that training competences delivered by the Guild are not officially considered until the Army notices and awards a proficiency badge. My fieldcraft and concealment skills have officially been graded "outstanding". It was amusing that the new training Kaporaal who has replaced Klinkie loudly demanded "Where the Hell is Sproetjie? Don't say she's gone AWOL!" because she genuinely thought I had taken the opportunity to go AWOL on the field training. It was pleasurable to come up behind her and say "I am here, corporal."

I was given a section of eight girls and instructed to plan a course through the training area and move them under concealment between two points. I demonstrated how to use camouflage creams on exposed skin and how to stow equipment so it does not rattle or make noise. I am pleased to say we accomplished the exercise under the noses of our instructing NCO's. That was satisfying.

The barracks room.

Thirty of us.

It is like being back in a First Year dorm again, except that we do not have the kindly Madame Emmanuelle in charge, there are no cleaners or bedders (apart from us!) and there are insane NCO's who go berserk at the slightest irregularity. At least it is warm at night.

As "lance-bomb", an unpaid kaporaal with neither rank nor formal authority, it falls to me to lead, encourage and to supervise the others in attaining the insanely high standard of order and cleanliness which is demanded. I am now in the habit of checking _everything_ before we are inspected and working with the two or three girls who are struggling and really should not be here. But National Service is a one-size-fits-all affair and those who do not fit the mould are going to get a harder time. Getting people like Brianna Collins up to a level where they will pass out alongside the rest of us is demanding and takes tact and a certain gentleness. But at least she isn't the one called Pigpen by the rest of us, who needs the sort of really intense tuition she should have received as a tiny child, in such things as even elementary cleanliness and personal grooming. How do such people happen? No wonder Morporkians perpetuate the slur that Rimwards Howondalandians are either allergic to soap or we haven't invented it yet. Now and again they are right.

Captain Leydermann, who is privately a decent fellow, took the regular inspection, announced himself well pleased with we inmates of Room Twenty-Three (female), and said we were easily the best presented of the recruit platoons. He privately said to me, referring to Pigpen, that "there's always one who needs a helping hand. You get one or two in every draft" and praised me for my leadership.

"It's hard for you now." he said. "but if you intend to become an officer. You'll never get a better training than you are getting now. Having to lead and encourage and get people to do things, but not having any formal rank to back you up. You're proving you can lead people without having the stars on your shoulders. Well done."

Field medicine and first aid. There's nothing here much that Matron Igorina didn't teach. There are no Igors here, by the way. This country needs them. But I gather Igors, who are colour-blind, are a problem to a society believing in apartheid. It offends BOSS to have people walking around who did not _begin_ as mixed-race, but become so after Igor intervention. Igors do not believe in segregating body parts according to the race or ethnicity of the previous owner. I understand this has caused issues in this our native land. Either Igors or the apartheid system need to change their way of thinking. Which do you think is more likely?

There is a segregated barracks here for training black auxiliary soldiers. We see them from a distance but do not interact very much. Occassionally black soldiers on fatigues are sent to perform menial jobs here. To emphasise our lowly status, we roofie recruits are sometimes ordered to do the same menial work: the message is that we are as low as the blacks in this place.

At least coming out on top as Best Barrack Block means we girls of Room Twenty-Three are now exempt from this sort of work. Being Best Platoon, despite Brianna and Pigpen, earns us this privilege and a little more free time in the evenings. This clear advantage also gives us something tangible to work for and makes my task as lance-bomb so much easier: everybody is motivated to keep up a common high standard.

I mentioned BOSS.

They are present here.

We had to endure several sessions of "orientation" (read: indoctrination) Why We Are Here, What It Is For, What We Are Doing, The Need For A White Howondaland, and so forth. Just what you do not need after a long day of physical training. Learning to shut out the drone whilst remaining seemingly attentive is a vital military skill. It reminds me of the more sterile sort of classroom at school, purposeless lessons that had to be endured rather than appreciated. Naming no names as I am sure you will share these letters in the staffroom. You can get a bit _moody_ about this, shall we say.

The Political Officer is an idiot. But a dangerous one.

We are sure there is a BOSS piemp in our number who is listening for signs of lack of patriotism, dangerously liberal attitudes and signs of scepticism concerning the political direction of our great nation. I am fairly sure who she is and I am careful around her. I suspect she is under instructions from her controller to monitor the Smith-Rhodes girl, and report carefully on what she says and does. I am known to have been educated abroad, and to have associated with enemies of the State such as my Zulu peers at school. And anything negative BOSS might discover concerning the Smith-Rhodes family goes into a very thick file. By now they probably have a whole archive room dealing with us.

We may have a quiet word with one of our number who is known to have been called for interviews with the Political and Intelligence Section. They recruit from our drafts too. At the moment we are all an undifferentiated pool of recruits who after passing out will be posted, potentially, to any arm of uniformed government service. Selection and aptitude tests are yet to happen.

I am wondering if Hans Dreyer's interest in taking me on will soon become active. This means after Officer School and the relevant courses, undergoing advanced training at Wafa-Wafa and the Slew's own selection board.

Our possible piemp is reticent about her future, but we suspect this involves BOSS and its advanced training at an "undisclosed location".

Conversation about our future postings is now happening, as it seems more likely we will pass out as soldiers. Brianna is hoping for an undemanding posting somewhere on the margins of the military where she can sit the two years out with the least amount of actual soldiering. I think she would have a proficiency in the medical corps or as an animal-handler: she is fundamentally a gentle soul who is not suited for fighting. She is fairly useless as a regular soldier but I do like her as a person.

It is possible, gods help us, that the one we call Pigpen is going to be sent to the Catering Corps. This betrays a malicious sense of humour on somebody's part. Well, she has spent so much of her time recently on fatigues in the cookhouse, washing plates and peeling potatoes. At least working on washing pots, pans and plates keeps her regularly exposed to hot water and some soap. (I did suggest this to our Kaporaal as a means of having her elsewhere whilst the Captain performs his regular barracks inspection. The Kaporaal smiled at me and told me _you aren't entirely stupid, then, Sproetjie!_ Then made the arrangements.)

Letters from Rivka, and from Horst Lensen, who is undergoing the same sort of _drecksheiss_ at the Wynberg barracks in Caarp Town. It does appear that the _pielkop_ is adapting well to his purgatory.

Incidentally, how _exactly_ are the Family meddling in his life? He said a few surprising things concerning his family business, which I understand was in financial trouble. He was quite worried about that. _**Do**_ tell me more about this "rescue package" for the Lensen vineyards. It intrigues me.

Got to close as it will be lights-out asoon. I will post this letter later. I have made arrangements for it to bypass Base censorship, as usual.

With love

Roofie 86307257, Piemberg Recruit Training Selection Centre, Fort Rapier. (Mariella).

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**

 **South African military slang is very expressive. I'm impressed.**


	38. In The Family now

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Eight – In The Family Now**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **I know. Can't stop fiddling. But a few after-images from shortly after the story ends with two girls paddling in the sea off Caarp Town…**_

 _ **In which the Smith-Rhodes family continues with its practice of benevolent meddling and giving things a judicious push in the right direction.**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Bitterfontein. In the Turnwise Caarp country.**_

Dear beloved son.

I am glad you are settling into Army life and your training is progressing well.

Well, things have been really exciting here! It is beginning to look as if the long worry about our future and the continual dread of losing our plaas and our livelihood is over. The weight of worry and concern is lifting. I know you have been concerned for us and this worry must have been ever present on your mind these last few years, especially lately during your lonely struggle through Klatch when you dissappeared completely and on top of everything else, we really thought you dead and gone.

Your father, I am sorry to say, took greater solace in the bottle and in that part of the output which we set aside for distillation into Klipdrift.

I sought to do what I can as your father took less care or concern for the business, but debts slowly mounted and every postal delivery was a dread. Only the core of truly loyal people we employ kept faith and kept the business going, although every day saw the gap between income and outgoing become steadily larger.

As I said to the visitors from the Transvaal who offered us new hope, these people are good and faithful and they must be retained under any new management.

I will speak of the visitors we received.

A Mr Andreas Smith-Rhodes and his wife Agnetha, who said they were taking the time for a holiday from their own plaas on the distant border region to see life in a more settled part of our land, and because they had had occasion to meet you recently, were interested in the sort of plaas you were brought up on and the land and background that shaped you.

I discovered you attended school with their daughter Mariella – she sounds such a lovely girl of good family, is it true that as her mother suspects, an Arrangement is working out between you? You should bring her to meet us. I would be interested. Her parents are good people! _Boer soek n'vrou_ , as the saying goes.

Of course I extended the hospitality of our plaas to good boer people and invited them to stay.

Andreas Smith-Rhodes, known as Barbarossa, said they were on the way to meet relatives in Caarp Town but saw no reason to hurry there just yet. "Cousin Charles can wait.", Barbarossa said. (Well, what he actually said, nearly, was "Cousin Charles can bloody well wait!", but Agnetha corrected his language, forcibly). I was slow to realise, but it dawned on me that Cousin Charles is that great and powerful man Charles Smith-Rhodes. And here was a relative who could bluntly say about Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes, "I visit you at my convenience, not at yours."

It seems you have become friend of a powerful family, Horst. I hope you remain their friend.

Our guests toured the vineyards, the vats, the distillery and the bottling plant. I was proud to show them what our family have built and what may be taken from us. But to my shame, your father was, shall we say, unwell and in no fit state to be host. It was mortifying.

"You have good land and good vines, _mevrou_ Lensen." Barbarossa said. "And good workers. But your husband?"

I explained as best I could. Agnetha looked grave and sympathetic. Barbarossa scratched his head.

"Ag, that is not good." he said. "It is true that I like a drink at the end of a long day. But no man begins his day with a drink. Not if he wishes to manage his own plaas. The drink can like you. Too much."

This huge giant of a man, I realised, is a thoughtful and kind man with a great heart and a capacity for life. Agnetha is truly a fortunate woman. Their daughter must be somebody special? Agnetha says she has three and is proud of them all. You must bring this Mariella here to stay, if she will.

Well, we took lunch and we talked. I felt I could trust these kind pleasant people. I heard of their five children and that their oldest daughter is the schoolteacher who had responsibility for you for seven years. While by all accounts she had many occasions to speak sharply to you and to correct your attitudes and behaviour while you were growing up, it appears she has warmed to the adult you have become, and is now more favourably disposed. It was in fact she who advised Barbarossa that your interest in her youngest sister is not necessarily a bad thing.

"I must confess I was alarmed by your son turning up suddenly to see my girl, and I spoke sharply to him as to what I expect." Barbarossa said, with some diffidence. "I suspect I scared the living daylights out of the boy, in fact."

"He feels guilty." Agnetha said.

I said not to worry. A father of daughters must feel this way concerning their suitors.

"I thank you for your understanding, _mevrou_ Lensen. Meanwhile Johanna, my oldest, found a little out about this plaas. Well. A good teacher should know the background and home life of her pupils, and Johanna is a good teacher."

They knew about the debts and the money worries. But this was not discussed at this point. It is a shaming thing for a boer to admit his plaas is failing, or for another boer to raise the matter on first acquaintance, and good manners dictates a gradual way of coming to speak of these things. But a wild hope arose in me.

We talked of life, and farming, and children, and our country. They stayed, and Barbarossa got to speak to your father, in a friendly and a gentle "look here, old fellow. You're in a mess and this really cannot go on. You have a _vrou_ and _kinder_. Three sons, I hear. I met your youngest, and I'm told by people who know him that he isn't a bad fellow…" sort of way.

Persuasion was happening. At first your father denied any problems and refused to discuss concerns. Barbarossa brought him round with enormous tact and patience.

"He can be patient and tactful. You wouldn't believe it. But he can." Agnetha said.

Well, Barbarossa went on, telling your father that it isn't just about him, he has a patient and faithful wife, a decent woman, and three sons to make provision for, and listen to me, we can come to an arrangement here. It's just possible your boy Horst and my daughter Mariella might become more closely involved. Hell, she has the same look in her eye that my girl Agnetha had when she brought her fellow to me. I know that look. Could be something, could fizzle out. But I'd quite like my girl to be with a fellow who has a future. As with my older two. And the way you're carrying on, you're pulling the future from under young Horst and even though I have a few issues with him, he's a good boy at bottom. Worth bringing on, you follow?"

Your father came round. Sober for long enough to realise he was drowning, and was being offered a lifebelt.

The Smith-Rhodes family are buying this plaas!

Not in total. We are retaining a share, but they have a controlling interest. It remains ours to farm. Our debts are being settled by the new investors who are speaking to our creditors about payment arrangements. In return, the managing consortium – and I understand Charles Smith-Rhodes has been persuaded by his formidable cousin to provide part of the finance – have made a few conditions.

Firstly, your father is going to the sort of hospital that manages people with too great a fondness for drink. He will retire from a big active involvement when he returns. There are clever Igor fellows there who do amazing things. Apparently if your father's liver and kidneys are too far gone to save, they can replace them! Your father will also undergo treatment to take away his fondness for wine and spirits. I'm not sure how this is done, but apparently your former teacher Doctor Johanna Smith-Rhodes believes "aversion therapy" is part of the treatment. Barbarossa says she's the one to go to for the details. Could you provide her address so I can ask? I believe she is also investing here. Agnetha said a plaas in _this_ country for her oldest daughter to visit might bring her here more often.

Your oldest brother is to be told the free ride stops here. He can still work for the new management company if he wishes, but as an employee on a fixed salary. Just walking in and taking what he likes, as he has been minded to, will be treated as theft. Also, as the plaas now belongs to a management company – for now – he will no longer inherit. The Lensen family will keep a strong interest, and this _huis_ remains mine and your father's with the mortgage settled - but if Nikolas is disinherited and Martinus has no interest, and is estranged from your father anyway – well, as Barbarossa said, that only leaves one son, does it not?

In time this plaas may come to you, Horst. Barbarossa says he is not necessarily opposed to this, and a fellow needs something to place at his wife's feet as dowry when he chooses to court one. Up to you, of course, he said. As he says, it might come to something, might come to nothing. But always willing to help a _broederboer_ in his time of need.

I remind you, Horst, my son.

 _Boer soek n'vrou._

Bring Mariella here.

Your loving mother

Hendricka Lensen.

* * *

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**

 **A nice footnote to write and full of future hints. I wonder what version of this story Mariella is going to get – and how she's going to react….**


	39. Dashing Through The Snow

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Thirty-Nine – The Protective Shield**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **I know. Can't stop fiddling. But a few after-images from shortly after the story ends with two girls paddling in the sea off Caarp Town…**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Far Überwald. Nearby to the towns of Blinsk, Pinsk and Stinsk. Winter.**_

 _ **Tidied after review.**_

The lone rider galloped through the snowy forest track, humming a theme from Wotua Doinov's _**СНОВА ПОХОЛОДАЛО!**_ It was the rather jolly bouncy Hogswatchy one about riding a troika sleigh in the snow. **(1)**

The sounds of hot angry pursuit were growing nearer. Swords clinked and hooves, muffled by the snow, were getting louder. The rider could hear the sound of angry Cossacks who were eager for a word. Largely concerning what that rider may or may not have done to their _hetman_.

The rider shrugged lower into the all-covering white cloak, which masked all-black working clothing underneath. Well, it was cold out there. And then ducked under the first of the wires stretched between trees on either side of the track. Not being especially tall and riding a Cossack pony, of the sort renowned for speed and endurance but not especially tall at the withers, helped.

After a while there was neighing, clattering, screams of pain and anger, and the unmistakable thud of pursuing riders galloping at speed being swept off their horses and into each other.

Rivka ben-Devorah smiled happily to herself as she slowed her horse's speed. It had taken _ages_ to set that trap up.

You couldn't inhume people you hadn't contracted for. That was a fundamental point of style and etiquette. But it was within the rules to disable and incapacitate them. Self-defence was permitted too.

She took her bearings. The forest stretched a long way in all directions. This was the only road. She'd dealt with or slowed down the cavalry pursuit that could only come from one avenue of approach. And if they took time to check and dismantle her traps – not just wires stretched at chest-height – they'd then follow slowly, and with more caution. Which gave her the chance to get a long way ahead. Perfect.

Evidently they'd discovered them, then. And that was the reason why they were mad as Hell.

She wondered how soon they'd discovered the other thing. She had read about the Lilac Revolution in History and Politics and, being a keen and attentive student, had taken useful notes. One interesting sidenote, something barely referred to in the text concerning the revolutionary leader John Keel, had fired her imagination. She'd experimented during the night to see if it worked. If she could get observational proof, it would be a bonus and something for her post-inhumation report.

Rivka rode on. It was good to be able to get two pay cheques for the same job. One from each of her employers. This was multi-tasking. And enhanced productivity. And with no conflict of interests involved, either.

There was a Guild contract out on a minor nobleman, a minor proprietary baron, called Lord Ivan The Horrible. He'd annoyed somebody far higher up the Ducal scale, or something. Rivka shrugged. You never got to know the reason or who'd bought the contract. You just did, then claimed the fee afterwards.

What had really interested her to take the contract had been Lord Ivan's old-time attitudes towards Cenotians resident in Far Überwald. Cenotians were confined to ghettoes, _shtetls_ , in parts of this country.

You put your clocks back by a couple of hours if travelling between far-flung parts of the Disc. To adjust to local time. The pilots of the Pegasus Service were old hands at this and could tell you the local clock time for _anywhere_ with barely a second's hesitation.

Places like Far Überwald, and possibly Hergen?

Olga Romanoff, herself from this part of the Disc, and she should _know_ , said that when arriving in this benighted corner composed of Zlobenia, Mouldavia, parts of Borogravia and _definitely_ Far Überwald, you should reset the _calendar._ Set that back by at least three _centuries_. **(2)**

Rivka smiled to herself as she rode on.

Local custom said that if anything went wrong, blame it on the Cenotians. Crops failed? Let's have a pogrom. Burn down the shtetl, see how those bloody Cenotians like it. Hard winter? Let's get warm by the light of a burning shtetl. Just bored? Let's have a pogrom. Burn down a shtetl.

Ivan the Horrible had restored this age-old cultural pathway and legitimate expression of the social mores of Far Überwald. Probably to give his kulaks a nice scapegoat and to allow them to get it out of their systems without, for eg, deciding a revolution to burn down the Lord of the Manor's estate house might be a better idea.

Ivan had not reckoned that these days Cenotia was a nation again, resurgent and growing in strength, and had people with very definite ideas about anti-Cenotianism and pogroms.

Rivka worked for an organisation that was capable of expressing strong disapproval of pogroms against Cenotians and tended to issue very definite warnings.

And she'd just delivered that very definite warning. _Gevalt,_ she _was_ the warning. The fact she could pick up a Guild contract fee, as well as a nice big bonus from the Institute of the Protective Shield, was pure job satisfaction.

Somewhere behind her was the client. She'd taken very diligent care to complete the Guild compliments slip and receipt in her full name of Rivka Naomi Leiliani ben-Devorah Bechstein. She only used her patronymic name _Bechstein_ for very formal occasions and preferred the matronymic, "ben-Devorah". Daughter of Deborah. Who had been Devorah Levy prior to marriage.

She felt the name, in full, was dropping a very big hint.

Calling by the village and dealing in turn with the head kulak, the village priest, and the Cossack hetman, was for the Institute. She hadn't been able to inhume any of them. No contract.

But each of the three, enthusiastic instigators of the pogrom, would wake up in a very public place, trussed up, with his trousers down and a Cenotian flag, of the sort small children stick in sandcastles, sticking out of a painful and embarrassing place.

A calling card from the Institute had been left where each of them could see it. It had the Institute motto about protecting and serving and shielding Cenotia. And a handwritten addition saying "Next time it won't be a flag".

She'd avenged the shtetl burning. Left a clear warning as to who they were dealing with. And completed the Guild contract. It had been a busy night. Nearly thirty thousand dollars worth of busy.

She rounded a corner in the forest road, calculating current exchange rate of the Cenotian shekel against the Ankh-Morpork dollar. _Let's see. I get the fee from the Institute in shekels. Do a bit of currency dealing. Strictly unofficially. Maximise the exchange rate. Pay it into my main account in good hard dollars..._ To see half a dozen grim-looking Cossacks waiting for her. _Damn. There must be a side trail I didn't know about. Some of these people are quite clever..._

She unhurriedly drew her pistol crossbow. She could deal with this. _Let them see the crossbow. Then prime and throw this explosive Device. The one in my other hand that they aren't looking at while they're watching my trigger finger._ Besides, their horses were looking skittish…

The chief Cossack drew his sabre. He frowned, trying to control a horse that was suddenly looking ill at ease and side-stepping. Then it neighed and reared.

Rivka grinned. It worked, then. _And_ on cue.

She watched as all six horses became wildly uncontrollable and reared in obvious equine discomfort. Most of the riders were thrown and one galloped off uncontrollably, its rider desperately trying to calm his mount.

She rode through the chaos, and didn't fire a shot.

The crowning touch of her night's work had involved a rubber glove and a bag full of suppositories, in the Cossacks' stable enclosure. Careful experimentation had suggested the protective gel coating on the ginger-and-chili bombs would be digested away, inside a sensitive part of the horse, after about possibly eight hours. She'd got the idea from reading about John Keel.

By now the rest of the Cossacks, a long way behind her, would be discovering this too. And, with any luck, also the hetman, the nasty priest, and the head kulak from the village. The petty bullies who like throwing their weight around. It hadn't _just_ been a wooden stick on those flags.

Rivka smiled happily.

In an hour or so she'd be over the Lipschitz, the accepted river border dividing the two Überwalds. Where a different ethnicity spoke the common tongue of Near Überwald and didn't take kindly to Cossack intrusions. It was like the local situation in Mariella's Transvaal where a river marked the border between White and Black Howondaland.

Although here the fault line wasn't between Vondalaander and Zulu but between Fritz and Ivan. It had exactly the same sort of needle to it.

Rivka wondered if, when she got back to Ankh-Morpork, another letter from Mariella would be waiting. She looked forward to these letters. Her lifelong friend was stuck in a bad-ish place and unable to earn any Assassin contract money for two years. Instead she got, what was it, a hundred rand a month, maybe eighteen dollars, as a recruit Army conscript. Granted it would rise to about thirty or slightly more as a junior officer. But not Assassin money.

At least she was being cheerful about it. Even if her family were Yenta-ing for her. Mariella's mother had learnt from Yenta Goldberg, it seemed. Mariella had been irritated that her parents were setting her up with Horst Lensen, and by the look of it were seeking to shape him up as acceptable son-in-law material. Making sure he had a good place of his own to offer her. Or something. A sweetener to guarantee a good marriage. She'd ask Johanna, when she got back.

Rivka rode on. Maybe there'd be a letter from Aaron too. She hoped so.

After a while she started humming _Troika Ride_ again. It went well with the steady canter of her horse.

* * *

 **(1)** Because there have to be footnotes. I've just put up three chapters without any, an all-time record. Think of Prokofiev's _**Troika**_ , the third movement of the _**Lieutenant Kijé**_ suite, which is indeed jolly and bouncy and Christmassy and possibly best known for its use by one Greg Lake in the bittersweet anthem _**I Believed in Father Christmas.**_ Well, it makes the royalty issue more favourable when your co-composer is a deceased Russian classicist whose works are out of copyright. This rider had received a very good sort-of-liberal education which had included a grounding in classical music. While she did not observe Hogswatch (but had no objection to Hannukah) she still appreciated the sort of jolly evocative tune you could hum whilst riding through the snow, pursuit by aggrieved Cossacks optional.

 **(2)** Cue the world-weary comment by the airline pilot coming in to land _: Ladies and gentlemen, we are now about to land at Aldergrove Airport, Belfast_ **(3).** _Please adjust to local time by setting your watches back by three centuries. Thank you!_

 **(3** ) Aldergrove has since been renamed after local son, footballer George Best. It has often been remarked that only the Irish could rename an airport after a man more notorious in later life for being a hapless alcoholic. And that it really sits well with the accepted fact that if you're incapably drunk, you aren't allowed to fly on _any_ carrier. The inevitable "only the Irish…" joke is modified when you take into account that Liverpool, England, renamed Speke Airport after local son John Lennon. A man so habitually intoxicated on a variety of hard drugs that he could fly without need of plane – and _another_ altered state of consciousness that for most people means being debarred from flight and maybe arrested…

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**

 **Nope, got nothing. Degrees of Imperial Russian nobility are... byzantine. But a baron appears to be the lowest form of life in the Imperial Russian Court.**


	40. Almost the end for now

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Forty -**_

 _ **Being a series of letters and postcards to Ankh-Morpork from two recent school-leavers on a gap year – well, by now more of a Gap Eighteen Months - touring the Howondalandian (or Klatchian – it depends where you're standing) continent.**_

 _ **I know. Can't stop fiddling. But a few after-images from shortly after the story ends with two girls paddling in the sea off Caarp Town… closing a few story lines - for now.  
**_

 _ **Now read on….**_

 _ **Ankh-Morpork.**_

"Ag, it happens. You can't win them all." Danie Smith-Rhodes said, philosophically. "How many bros ended up in the Lady Sybil? Lost count. _Jislaik_ , that many? I _thought_ we were running out of substitutes."

The Springboeks had just lost – narrowly – to the hardest, most brutal, most vicious, team in the League. The opposition were drawn from an occupation steeped in human suffering and misery and survivors of one of the most Spartan, exacting and onerous Guild training courses which protracted itself over several years of pain and dedication.

Danie reflected they were up against an Assassins' Guild senior squad (The Wasps, who wore black and yellow team strip) next week. That should be easier than _this_ lot.

The Harlequins had a fearsome reputation. People laughed at the idea and unwary people laughed at the team strip. But not for long.

A fifteen-a-side team drawn from the Fools' Guild was a fearsome thing to come up against. It followed on, really, that men who lived a Spartan life, were denied alcohol, who didn't _insist_ on celibacy but _expected_ it **(1),** who lived in barren conditions by choice, who had to be physically fit and agile to survive all the physical comedy and pratfalling…. they'd not only be physically fit, but would also have a lot of aggression and repressed anger to burn off. They outclassed the Bokkies in the line-outs – Danie wondered about spring-loaded boots - and their habit of collapsing the scrum for comedic purposes was disconcerting. Besides, the Fools' Guild enforcers, the Jolly Good Pals, provided the core of the side.

"Ag. They won out of those last few penalties. Not many points in it. Let's have a beer." Danie suggested. "We can talk about how to _really_ donner the bliksems next time."

Danie sighed. On top of all this there was the other thing. He had to get that out of the way, so as to have future Saturday afternoons free for the game. He sighed again. Why did women insist weddings and all the related things had to happen on Saturday afternoons? It was _inconvenient._ _Jislaik_ , a man needed his Saturdays free for the stuff that _really_ mattered… maybe they could get it over with in the morning, so he could still kick off at three. He wondered how to phrase this entirely reasonable suggestion to Heidi.

 _ **The Guild of Assassins, Filigree Street, Ankh-Morpork**_

The bell tolled once. Lord Downey allowed the echoes to die away, then lifted his notes and read:

"And the Baron Ivan Raskolnikov of Blinsk, Far Überwald, was ushered into a reunion with his ancestors with the assistance of Miss Rivka ben-Devorah, of Black Widow House, who very courteously held the door to the Afterlife open for him."

It would also appear as a press release in the _Who Was Who_ section of _**The Times.**_ The Assassins' Guild liked to advertise.

Downey smiled, and addressed the School Assembly. Several hundred faces turned to him attentively, or at least pretending attention **. (2)**

"That concludes the sounding of the Inhumation Bell. And now, there is an announcement I have the very greatest of pleasure in making. Many of you will have been taught, in the subject areas of Natural History, **(3)** Practical Zoology, **(4)** Howondalandian Languages, **(5)** and Self Defence Skills, **(6),** by Miss Heidi van Kruger.

"I am delighted to be able to pass on to you all that she is now formally engaged to be married to Mr Danie Smith-Rhodes. It is anticipated that marriage will follow on very soon and that this will take place in her home town of…" Downey consulted his notes and very carefully enunciated the name. It was clear that he had been coached. "… _Magersfontein_ , in Rimwards Howondaland. It is anticipated that students in a position to make their way there will of course be invited.

"I have been asked by Miss van Kruger to announce there will be a formal engagement reception this Saturday afternoon and evening, at the Springboek Club on Scoone Avenue. All Rimwards Howondalandian students currently in school are invited to attend, as are all students on her Vondalaans and Kerrigian course modules. I wish you all a very happy occasion, but respectfully remind students under sixteen that they are not legally permitted to consume alcohol, and _must_ be back in School by their respective curfews. House masters and mistresses will be informed.

"Miss van Kruger will advise us later as to whether or not she chooses to be known here under her married name of Mrs Smith-Rhodes. I'm sure we all wish this popular member of staff the greatest of happiness…"

 _ **Fort Rapier Barracks, Piemberg, R.H. Some weeks earlier.**_

Recruit soldier 86307257, known as _Sproetjie_ or _Sproet_ to her fellows, leant on her mop and surveyed the vast expanse of cookhouse floor. There was a way to go yet. Maybe she shouldn't have drawn attention to herself during the Political Orientation class. But it had been worth it…

They were now twenty weeks into initial training and selection. Two to go before passing out. Then this part of the whole drecksheiss business was over and done with and things could only get better. She hoped.

The Master Gyppo, the cookhouse sergeant, looked her way and frowned. Sproet reloaded her mop and set to again. At least some NCO's were sympathetic, in their way. The Master Gyppo had said to her to do a good job and there'd be a decent dinner in it for her. The sergeant had also confided that Captain Hondsdoleekhoring, the Political Officer from BOSS, had not been a happy piemp at all. Oh no. Apparently, acording to his friend the Mess Sergeant, who got the privilege of witnessing officers relaxing in their own space, the BOSS officer had been complaining about her to Captain Leyderman. This sort of thing provided quiet discreet amusement in the Sergeants' Mess. The Master Gyppo was therefore inclined to be sympathetic to the root cause.

"Do a good job, _meisie Sproetjie_ , and I might remember there is some mahra pudding left over from the Officers' Mess dinner last night. With _amarula_. And there are _koeksisters_ being baked for the officers. They won't miss one or two."

Sproet sighed. Cake was a lingering distant memory. Recruits tended not to be offered a dessert course. Or sweet biscuits to go with their brew.

Captain Leyderman had despatched her to fatigues, because, well, there had to be _some_ sort of official sanction. Just for the look of the thing. He had reminded her, mildly, that there was such an offence as _dumb insolence_ , which covered such eventualities as a smart-arsed recruit asking seemingly innocent questions of the Political Officer that left him trapped and floundering, in front of a room full of sniggering recruits.

"I bet your teachers _dreaded_ you putting your hand up in class and asking questions." **(7)** he had remarked, then sent her to the cookhouse to report for KP work.

And the Regimental Sergeant-Major, the nearest thing to one of the Gods on any military base, had looked in her direction. That had been _frightening_. Most of her military service had been merely tedious and irksome so far. _Frightening_ was a new and unwelcome thing.

The RSM had attended the political orientation. Even the RSM had to defer to BOSS and be Orientated, now and again.

And afterwards, when Sproet had been hauled off to see the tree by infuriated NCO's and maybe even to _raak de draad_ or get a very big _boempie_ , RSM Thiejsmann had strolled over and said "I'll deal with this, Sergeant."

Thiejsmann was an old soldier in his fifties, coming up to retirement. He wore the blue ribbon of the Howondaland Star in Gold. Sproet thought it was one of the less intimidating things about him.

"March with me, recruit." he had said.

Sproet had marched. Behind her, the other inmates of Room Twenty-Three wondered if they'd see her again.

Around a corner and out of sight, Thiejsmann called a halt. He let her stand to attention for a few long seconds.

"I've been watching you." he remarked. "I don't normally pay attention to individual roofies. But just now and again."

The RSM touched the blue ribbon with seeming absent-mindedness.

"This will go before your platoon commander." he said. "No doubt he'll award punishment. Meisie, don't you think anyone with a brain is going to want to call a BOSS officer a dof? Which you did just now. Without actually using the word. But you still implied he was a dof. Which a recruit soldier _does not do_ to a Captain. Not in front of witnesses, anyway. Not even a roofie with _your_ education. And not even a Smith-Rhodes."

Thiejsmann smiled slightly.

"I understand Crowbar Dreyer wants you." he remarked. "Knowing your family, I would not be surprised. But if you want to be an officer in an élite unit, meisie, _you have to learn to accept orders_. Even the stupid ones. In this place, _especially_ the stupid ones. You have to dig through a lot of dreck before you find a gold nugget, they say. This is the digging through dreck, meisie. You have to do it for twenty-two weeks straight before you get a sniff of gold. Without complaining and without putting the spade down. However much kak sticks to you."

The RSM paused and regarded her.

"A few years ago I didn't expect to get much further than a three-liner. I was platoon sergeant with a new young officer called Julian Smith-Rhodes. He shaped up very well. I liked him. Then we were in a sticky place. There was another Smith-Rhodes there. She got us out of that sticky place. Alive."

Thiejsmann touched the medal ribbon again.

"I came out with my life, promotion, and _this_. So aren't you lucky, meisie, that I feel I owe the Smith-Rhodes family a few courtesies? Discovering the younger sister is a recruit in this place interested me. I looked for her. And here you are."

The RSM nodded to her.

"If you're like your sister, you will go places. _But you will not go there if you put the spade down, go on strike, and refuse to dig for the gold nugget in the kak._ Crowbar Dreyer is the gold nugget. You will encounter him properly in a few weeks. IF you knuckle down and put up with it."

The RSM nodded to her.

"Now fall out, recruit, and rejoin your section. Whatever punishment you are awarded, _accept it without complaint_. Dismissed!"

Mariella fell out, gratefully. She knew when she was being warned. And she respected being spoken to as if she was an intelligent rational adult. That was kind of thin on the ground just now, in this place. It was one of many things that irked her about the Army.

They were woken up at six-thirty every morning without fail. Ag, she'd been brought up on a farm. That was like getting a lie-in for an extra two hours. Luxury.

They were expected to be impeccably presented and to keep their clothing and equipment in good order. She'd been at the Assassins' School for seven years. She couldn't see what the big deal was.

She was expected to be able to jog for eight miles in full equipment order. She was a long-distance runner who could do thirty miles as a regular thing. And win races.

She was expected to put five crossbow bolts into a tight grouping in a man-shaped target. Which was directly in front of her and unable to shoot back. Laughable. **(8)**

They thought they could teach her about camouflage and moving in concealment without being seen. She'd got full marks for that in Fifth Year.

There was foot drill, which was a heaven-sent excuse to switch her mind off and to let her body do the work. A rest. She could half-listen to the drill sergeant and compose long letters in her head to family and friends. Go on autopilot.

Maintenance of Weapons and Naming of Parts. She did this with her eyes closed to break the monotony **.(9)** And they thought all this was _difficult_?

Instructors in combat skills and fighting technique had evidently been warned **.(10)** When calling for a volunteer to step forward and assist with the demonstration, they all determinedly ignored her, however hard she put her hand up and demonstrated an admirable and soldierly willingness to help the instructor. That was getting _boring_. Mariella generously passed some of her skills on to the other girls in informal training sessions in the barracks. Just to get even. Twenty-Three was getting a reputation as a hard gig for unarmed combat instructors. They soon realised they had to take care when calling out a Twenty-Three girl to be the butt of the demonstration. An unwary corporal had discovered this the hard way. The mild and weedy looking Recruit Collins, B, had looked down on him with genuine concern on her face and asked "Are you alright, corporal? I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Brianna was not now seen by training NCO's as a natural victim. Mariella was pleased about that.

Being shrieked, screamed and yelled at by NCO's from inches away was something Mariella found distasteful but not at all frightening. She wondered about the mental state of people who acted like this. Even felt a little sorry for them and possibly even concerned for their wellbeing. Teachers at the Guild School rarely shouted. Or raised their voices overmuch. They didn't need to. She'd had Miss Alice Band talk to her in a low voice, and accompany that with a Look. She'd had Miss Sanderson-Reeves glare at her and use her one-to-one classroom voice. _That_ was frightening. Drill sergeants and depot NCO's didn't even come _close_. She'd also done the Vimes Run. Three times. **(11)**

During such roastings Mariella had responded, internally, by privately weighing up which decisive response would shut the damn person up, and end the irritating loud noise quickly. This had resulted in numerous invitations to See The Tree, and yet another word from Captain Leyderman, who knew her background and training, warning of the consequences of "dumb insolence", and politely requesting that she "just go with it for now, and at least _pretend_ to give them the reaction they want to see. Please? It makes it easier for everybody."

Captain Leyderman had also pointed out, perfectly reasonably, that the only blot on Mariella's otherwise exemplary record was what her supervising NCO's darkly described as "an attitude", and suggested she throttle back on any displays, subtle or otherwise, of an independent mind. Officer School beckoned – but could be derailed, to the point where she could end up as a private soldier in the Pioneer Corps digging latrines for two years. Which, in his opinion, would be a waste.

Mariella accepted this and set about knuckling down and not making waves. It was only for a few more weeks now, after all…

 _ **Some weeks later.**_ _**Ankh-Morpork:**_

Heidi van Kruger sat down with an audible and very emphatic _flumph_ noise. Normally pleasant and even-tempered and one who had survived seven years at the Guild School followed by several years of putting her training to good use, one who was liked and respected by her pupils and thought of as a sympathetic and fairly easy-going tutor, on this occasion she was frowning and slightly flushed with something approaching irritation.

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, who had got the drinks in, sat back and waited for her to get it out of her system. She had a pretty good idea of the things that were irking Heidi right now. She'd been through something similar herself, after all. And the snug bar of the Ring and Fish, on Hope Square, with a good strong drink in front of them, was a good place to pass on her advice and experience. Her home round the corner on Spa Lane was not neutral space right now.

"I'll be glad when it's all over and done with, Johanna!" Heidi said. She contemplated her double gin. "They're _**taking over**_!"

"Of course they do." Johanna said, mildly. "Listen to me. You're only the one getting married. Whatever made you think it was about _you_?"

It was all to do with The Arrangements. Heidi's parents and older sister – and her family – had flown in on the carpet service. Johanna was heartily glad her own parents weren't here. Out of courtesy, the van Kruger family were being put up at Spa Lane. Heidi's parents were staying at Johanna's. Her sister, brother-in-law and their kids were two doors down, guests at the Bellamys. Davinia Bellamy liked having more children in the place, especially with her oldest son having himself married and moved out, and with Martin and Tim off doing other things in the world. It meant there were a few rooms free and she had a family to mother by proxy. Her daughter Davinia Junior got a few more playmates, as did Bekki and the Lapoignard boys. With, as a bonus, two nannies and domestic servants to keep an eye. Freeing up the mothers to do other things, unencumbered by children.

And this was only to arrange the first formal engagement party, the one in Ankh-Morpork for friends and family resident here. There'd be a second engagement reception in Magersfontein for family and friends over there at Home. And that was even before the wedding itself.

"When does Mariella pass out?" Heidi asked, taking her mind off immediate irritations. "I'm glad I avoided all that kak."

Johanna smiled. Heidi had managed indefinite deferment from National Service. She'd got a reputation for some industrious and determinedly applied draft-dodging. Normally there were three good reasons for not doing conscript service. That's if you discounted the fourth and fifth, which were conscientious objection and imprisonment for offences against the State. To get the fourth required some serious jumping through hoops and a marked card from BOSS afterwards. The fifth was even worse than conscription and still got you a BOSS file.

Marriage and motherhood discounted a girl from national service. Having white children for the future of Rimwards Howondaland was held to be national service in its own right – but as Heidi pointed out, this lasted a hell of a lot longer than two years and you couldn't dodge _that_ one by conscientiously objecting **.(12)**

Contracted work overseas, or continuing education, especially if it was indirectly beneficial to the State, got you deferment. Heidi had aced things by getting Teaching Assistant work at the Guild School and studying for an degree. Then there'd been the Tobacco Farm business13 which had been held to be an act of great service to the State which could be discounted against her National Service. But not completely. Her engagement and marriage to Danie would now wipe the slate completely, and meant she could go Home without having large military policemen turn up to arrest her.

"Her passing-out parade – always assuming she doesn't go Librarian and inhume some of her wonderful NCO's – is on the day before your engagement party." Johanna said. "That's the reason why my parents and family can't make this one. They'll be at Fort Rapier to watch her pass out. I'm assuming Mariella then gets local leave for a few days before she gets posted. Shell spend that on the family plaas. Still, they can all make it to Magersfontein for the other engagement party."

Johanna smiled the relaxed smile of one who knows her own parents are several thousand miles away. On this occasion, it was Heidi's mother and father who were just around the corner managing things for their daughter. Somebody else getting it in the neck this time.

"Of course, when you're in this Family, you're in for life." Johanna said. "No remission or parole. And always assuming you get through the wedding, that's not the end. Your mother and mine dropping brick-sized hints about when you'll get round to children. You also get an Aunt Friejda, as you might have noticed. And she lives locally."

Heidi winced. Johanna decided to be gentle.

"Any thoughts about what name you're using for work?"

"Not sure." Heidi said. "Being Mrs Smith-Rhodes would have advantages, though. Reputation by association."

"On top of your own." Johanna reminded her.

They took their drinks.

"Any houses in mind?" Johanna asked. "You'll have to do the decision-making. Where Danie's concerned. He'd happily live in a shed if there was room for a braai outside. And it was near a football field."

"There's a nice place on Cragman's Way." Heidi said. "Nearby to you, off Spa Lane. And a nice location on Hellspool, a bit further out. I reckon I can afford it out of what's in the bank. That big payment from a grateful nation after the Tobacco Fields has been gathering interest for a few years. And a couple of completion fees since. Buying either would clean out most of the available cash but it leaves about eighteen thousand. For furnishing the place and a bit over for emergencies."

"Can't rely too much on Danie. He's only on twenty-eight a month as a zookeeper. Plus sponsorship money for boots and kit." Johanna remarked.

"Endorsements." Heidi said, laconically. "But those only last as long as his football career does. And strictly speaking he's an amateur. Wish he was on a share of the gate money!"

There was talk of a Professional Foot-The-Ball Players association, a Sportsmans' Guild. People who owned the grounds and the clubs were against this. But the best teams drew in thousands as spectators. Johanna and Heidi had done a few back-of-the-envelope sums concerning fifteen thousand people paying a few pennies each to get in every Saturday. Foot-the-ball players were like musicians and other artists: apart from a few, they just wanted to get out there and perform and were unworldly concerning money. Johanna and Heidi had been quietly stirring things up and suggesting how those gate receipts could be more equitably distributed. They'd spoken to wives and girlfriends of other players in other teams. Some brighter players were listening.

Owners of clubs were likely to start getting a few shocks very soon. Johanna had quietly suggested to a manufacturer of boots and kits that a player like her brother, with a reputation and a following, could make a point of preferring that firm's boots. Publicly. And that could be worth a few dollars, perhaps? She was sure an amicable agreement could be arrived at.

Other endorsement deals had followed.

Johanna had other ideas. Just to get her amicable and pleasant drifting dof of a brother set up for married life. A sort of wedding present.

"Watch Aunt Friejda." she advised Heidi. "I invested a lot of my available cash in buying Spa Lane. Didn't leave too much over at the time. I felt it was right to get the best home we could afford and get it furnished. Money got tight. Then my… _our_ … aunt took it on herself to provide a staff of domestic servants. In her opinion a Lady of Means with a social position to maintain _must_ have servants. It all worked out in the end, but with Bekki on the way, things got _really_ stretched. And you have to think about setting aside for school fees. Separate accounts. Investments. Hopefully you'll be spared having to sponsor pupils through School too. I ended up with _three_ to provide for. Mariella's done with now, but I'm responsible for Young Johanna still. And _somebody_ needed to support Emma Roydes. The School is no fun when your family don't have two farthings to rattle together."

"And she's Family too, in a roundabout sort of way." Heidi agreed.

They got fresh drinks.

"So. Aunt Friejda. Servants." Heidi said. She gloomily considered the cost of housing, equipping and paying for a domestic staff.

" _Ja._ Aunt Friejda. I suggest you have a quiet discreet talk with Uncle Pieter. You get him as part of the package too, so it's not _entirely_ bad news. Explain you heard I got servants through the best intentions of his wife. Talk to him about it. Then he'll talk to her about curbing her enthusiasm. I suggest you get a good cook, at least. And one maid who can do general things well. A man for other duties. You know, gardening, boiler-stoking, maintenance. That way you genuinely get useful people who are worth their pay. Try not to let her dump half a dozen on you. You need to budget for their pay and benefits too. That costs."

Johanna smiled at her former pupil.

"Take a couple of contracts. Not big-paying ones. Straightforward ones. They don't have to be inhumations. I think you'll need to. Build a reserve in the bank. If it helps, there are investment opportunities coming up. I'm in a position now to buy into the Rail Ways, for instance. A small share in the lines Uncle Charles wants to establish at Home. That's proven technology. Backed by people who know what they're doing. Always a banker. We've also bought into a plaas in Bitterfontein. Vineyards and distillery. That's more long-term, but it's potentially a very sound business. People will always drink wine."

"Wedding present for Mariella, I heard?" Heidi asked.

Johanna shrugged. She'd heard her sister was fuming at the assumption. She'd deal with that when they met next.

"Might be. Might not be. To be honest, after the way things turned out I thought I owed the boy _something_. He turned out right in the end. He needed a better future, that didn't involve BOSS in any way. However things go with Mariella. And did I mention you also get an Uncle Charles? Just count your fingers after shaking hands with him and _always get a lawyer to double-check the small print_."

They sipped their drinks reflectively. It was a quiet afternoon and a window of sanity in the midst of Family dealings and interference.

 _ **Fort Rapier Barracks, Piemberg, R.H. Some weeks earlier.**_

The recruit soldier known as Sproet marched purposely back to room Twenty-Three with a large case on her shoulder which was prominently mared as containing Cleaning Supplies. Nobody bothered even a mere roofie dressed in battered fatigues who was evidently off on a chore involving having to clean something to within an inch of its life. This suited her. Returning to the barrack room, she found the others dealing with the small but irksome things of recruilt life. most of their free Octeday was spent on such tasks to ensure Monday got off on the right foot. Sproet sighed. Fatigues at the cookhouse meant she still had her own kit and uniforms to attend to. But there was room for this first...

Exchanging a few " _Hei's!_ '" with the others, she tipped the box out onto her bed. The smell of fresh-baked pastries filled the air. All the other girls crowded round.

" _Koeksisters_." Sproet said, laconically. she indicated the newly-baked sweet pastries, more than a biscuit, less than a cake. "Enough for two each."

Cookhouse fatigues could be rewarding.

* * *

 **(1)** And in any case, it was a rare – and strange – woman who found Clowns irresistibly attractive. Even if a Clown didn't _want_ to be celibate he often found there was no choice in the matter. Clowns (and Jesters, Mime Artistes, and the strange people who wore mascot costumes at theme parks) soon came to expect a celibate lifestyle. **  
**

 **(2** ) This is a valuable skill taught in schools and serves graduates in good stead, say when attending numbingly boring lectures delivered by idiot Army officers talking in a monotonous voice, in a deliberately overheated room at the end of a long day of physical work, whilst depot NCO's look for signs of inattention or falling asleep that they can be happily sadistic to. As Mariella discovered at Fort Rapier. Mariella _**did**_ get into trouble for her behaviour at an Orientation from the Political Officer. Not for falling asleep, but for being too attentive and asking a question of Teacher. I may discuss this later. **  
**

**(3)** How to recognise dangerous animals, how to avoid them, what to do if you can't avoid them, and how to turn it to your advantage. **  
**

 **(4)** As per **(3)** above, but at far closer quarters. **  
**

 **(5)** Vondalaans at various levels of competence. From Beginners, to people from Sto Kerrig and Phlaanders who were interested in the strange Howondalandian version of their language. She also did Howondalandian Literature and Cultural Studies. It actually had some Literature and Culture, which surprised people. Heidi also taught Kerrigian Language, Literature and Culture. She quite liked it in Sto Kerrig. **  
**

**(6)** Heidi had been thoroughly taught by Johanna Smith-Rhodes, and added a few twists of her own. It boiled down to " _Attack is the best form of self-defence_ ". And " _Get your retaliation in first_ ". A veteran of the Tobacco Fields Battle, she had proven her fighting ability. **  
**

**(7)** Very perceptive on his part, as this was _exactly_ where Mariella had learnt to be creatively insolent. She had once, in all open-faced innocence, put her hand up and said to Mr Moody, the Classics Master, that his teaching had moved her to go and read some of the great Latatian poets, but please sir, I'm having a little difficulty with this stanza, can you help? Flattered, George Moody had asked her to read the lines she was finding difficulty with. She had obliged. She read

 _"_ _Percidere puer, moneo: futuere puella:  
barbatum furem tertia poena manet."_

"Sir, the precise translation and meaning of these lines is a little _opaque_ to me."

Then she had enjoyed watching the hapless Moody stutter and flounder over what Mariella full knew was an invocation to Priapus, God of Erect Penises, to rise up and do his stuff with regard to something referred to as _the bearded pit_. It had earned her a week of detention but it had been worth it.

School Latin primers tend to omit the dirtier poems. But interested Classics students still find them. And rejoice that it isn't _totally_ pointless. Latin has a rich heritage of dirty poetry and prose. This rarely gets taught in schools.

 **(8)** A nasty surprise for Assassins' Guild pupils during initial training in projectile weapons was to be lined up at the Butts to shoot at what they _thought_ were static targets directly in front of them. Then instructors concealed among the targets would start shooting back. Not to wound or kill, but to place return fire _just close enough._ This was found to focus the minds of the pupils wonderfully as a reminder that on the day, they would not be shooting at passive cut-outs made of wood and cardboard, and might expect return fire coming their way. Advanced lessons in shooting had even more subtle refinements, to grab their attention.

 **(9)** Often taught by the Guild in a very dark place while wearing a blindfold. Sometimes the environment in which a trainee Assassin had to strip and reassemble a crossbow whilst blindfold might be a deep-freeze at the Pork Futures Warehouse, the top of an exposed roof in a rainstorm or a hard gale, or a room scattered with broken or uselessly unrelated parts of mechanisms that felt like they were weapon components. All to point out that very often you'd be doing these things in less than ideal conditions and you'd _better_ learn to do it in your sleep with your eyes closed.

 **(10)** Unarmed combat at the Guild was mainly taught by _Johanna_ Smith-Rhodes. Miss Pretty Butterfly, Koukouchou-sama, taught the formal Agatean sorts. Mariella had attended classes in both types.

 **(11)** Being dunked in shit is unpleasant, but somebody brought up on a farm knows what it feels like and is already a little bit immured to the horrors. Besides, Sam Vimes had made a Special Watchwoman of her older sister and had a quiet respect for Johanna. He hadn't exactly let Mariella off but had provided a hot bath and laundry facilities afterwards. He'd been equally careful with Rivka, reckoning that he would probably be able to deal with it if she had any lingering bad memories afterwards _. Probably_. But he also had a very short list of names of Assassins who he suspected just _might_ be able to get through to him if it was a bad day and he felt under par. Rivka's name was on it. Besides, he quite liked her too.

 **(12)** The middle sister in between Johanna and Mariella, Agnetha Smith-Rhodes, had seen what was coming and had aced things her own way, by marrying at seventeen. Her oldest daughter Johanna Smith-Rhodes-Maaijande had followed, with what the uncharitably-minded might have described as suspiciously indecent speed. But nobody ever made this insinuation where Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes could hear it. Agnetha's parents had accepted things equitably: it was good to get them married off young, Agnetha was a sensible girl, unlike her older sister, and Kurt was a good steady man a few years older. Good for everybody.

 **(13)** Go to my tale _**Bungle in the Jungle.**_

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**

Microsoft Word. Advisory header on my page highlighted in yellow: _This document contains text in Afrikaans which isn't being proofed. You may be able to get proofing tools for this language._ Surprised it doesn't say: _Hierdie dokument bevat teks in Afrikaans wat nie is wat geproef. Jy kan in staat wees om bestendigheid gereedskap kry vir hierdie taal._


	41. Rites of Passage

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Forty -One**_

 _ **Trying for the last postscript ever. For now. Looking for a way to conclusively finish the ongoing tale. For now. But stories never end – you just get to the convenient end of a chapter… going for a conclusive wrap, anyway. And damn, 4500 words in I realise it's STILL not properly there…**_

 _ **A reply to a guest reviewer (novohank) who wrote:**_

I don't know if t was deliberate or not, but Rivka ben etc means Rivka son of... if you had intended to keep it gender correct it would be Rivka bat ... I just love these stories, and have read them several times. hoping to see something new after chapter 40.

 _ **As it arrived as a guest review and there was no "reply" button, couldn't respond there… but it does raise a good point worth answering.**_

 _ **Answer being: as a child, and I know this dates me, BBC television ran a childrens' TV show on music presented by a most engaging and somewhat manic pixie of a flute player called Atara ben-Tovim. She also did unrelated programmes for children on religion, concerning what it was to be Jewish – she came over as a sort of distaff version of the exceedingly likeable Rabbi Lionel Blue. For some reason the construction of her name interested me: I made the association that being ben-something in Israel/Judaic families was equivalent to being a mac in the Gaelic world, or Gudrunsdottir in Iceland, or Somethingovich in Slavonic places. The idea that a Jewish girl could be ben-mymother or ben-myfamily'sname stuck, and re-emerged in Rivka many years on…**_

 _ **Now read on for the something new after Chapter Forty….**_

* * *

 _ **Fort Rapier Barracks, Piemberg, R.H.**_

 _Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde,  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier!  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde,  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur!_

Nearly three thousand people were singing the anthem. It almost drowned out the military band performing the tune.

 _Morporkia wil ons volk verower,  
Belowe pyn en smart!  
Maar as jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
My Vondalaanderhart!_

It was all quite stirring and moving, really, even for the Soon-To-Be-Something-Other-Than-Recruit 86307257, Smith-Rhodes M.E. Paraded with the rest of Twenty-Three to formally pass out, Mariella was heartily pleased all the drecksheiss and kak would soon be over. Or perhaps she was simply being posted on to some higher order military drecksheiss. She'd soon find out.

After a morning spent, among other things, helping people like Brianna Collins and the abominable Pigpen to look immaculate for a parade in front of real live civilian people – and Mariella knew her own family were out there somewhere – the parade itself was a couple of hours of pure applied bullshit involving saluting some very senior brass up on the dais. She was relieved Uncle Charles hadn't contrived some sort of an excuse to come out. Or he'd have been up there on the flag-hung dais as a Visiting Dignitary and finding an excuse to review the troops – no doubt talent-scouting for useful people for the family concerns.

In any case, the General Commanding had performed the obligatory inspection of several hundred new recruits, passing down the ranks and talking to people here and there, as the occasion demanded. He'd passed briefly over Mariella, but had stopped disbelievingly in front of Pigpen, as if not quite believing what he saw. Then had blinked, said nothing, and moved on quickly while Captain Leyderman, a sergeant and a corporal had looked very worried.

And then they were being lectured by the General. All the usual sort of platitudes about well done, you now pass out as private soldiers, very soon you will see the postings you will receive, which have been allocated on the basis of observation, aptitude tests and your performance as recruits, may the rest of your years in uniform be happy and productive ones in the service of Rimwards Howondaland…

Mariella listened with half an ear.

Then the parade was brought to attention and the order went out for the nominated Best Recruit from each platoon to march smartly forward to be personally congratulated by the General.

Mariella listened to the roll-call with half an ear.

She did hear Sergeant Stuiyversant hissing _"Sproetjie! Get out there!"_ and realised her own name had been called. Feeling suddenly exposed, she right-turned, fell out, and marched to the front where the Star Recruits were being mustered.

 _ **The Wynberg Barracks, Caarp Town, R.H.**_

Another passing-out parade was coming to its conclusion. The parade had been formed, the recruit platoons had marched onto the field, families and friends had been invited and assembled, and the military band had played marches such as _Ons Vir Jou, Hovondalaand_.

 _Sien jy ons helde...span saam op die veldt.  
Sal veg tot die einde, om 'n nasie te smelt._

 _Ons vir jou, Hovondalaand...  
Ons vir jou, Hovondalaand!_

 _Gee nie om wie voor ons staan, soos 'n rots  
Staan 'n nasie saam. ons vir jou Hovondalaand!_ **(1)**

The national anthem _Die Stem_ and the inevitable Vondalaander Hymn had followed. Several thousand voices singing the anthems had been moving. One slightly older recruit in the parade reflected on this and remembered his old teacher's cynical comments about how, in a mass of several thousand people brought together by a powerful anthem, how even the most banal and trite sentiments could bypass the brain, appeal directly to the emotions, and incite something which generated a sense of unity that the unscrupulous could divert into regrettable things. A younger version of him had dutifully reported her seditious opinions to BOSS for her file. The older version of him now realised she had been right. He winced inside and vocalised a prayer for forgiveness.

And then the Best Recruits had been ordered to march out from their platoons for the General Officer's Inspection.

They were invited to step forward, one by one, for a handshake with the General, introduced by their platoon officers. As well as the inevitable aide-de-camp, a tall, distinguished looking civilian with a disconcertingly hawk-like face was present. Only the civilian clothes made him appear out of place here. He looked like the sort of senior politician who carried a lot of clout and influence. Even the General paid him a sort of guarded deference. Next to this anonymous-looking civilian, a General in full parade uniform seemed somewhat diminished.

"And this young man?" the civilian asked, pleasantly. In Morporkian and not Vondalaans.

"Private Lensen, sir. Soon to be Candidate Officer Lensen. His posting is to the Military Academy at Stellenbosch."

The hawk-faced civilian delivered a searching look, scrutinizing Horst's face. It wasn't an unpleasant or unsympathetic look. But it meant business.

"Ah, yes. Not the only officer school in the country. But the most prestigious. My sons attended."

"He more than earned it, sir." Horst's platoon commander said. "An outstanding recruit."

Hawk-face nodded. He addressed Horst directly.

"I believe you were one of the three who fought their way across this continent, young man? You've already seen a bit of action, even before signing up."

"Yes, sir." Horst said, politely. "Although mine was the lesser part, in all honesty."

"But you fought. Damn well, too. And you're an Assassins' Guild graduate."

The hawk smiled slightly.

"I'd appreciate a private talk with you later, if you're willing. After you've had time with your family, obviously. Ask for me at the Officers' Club. Charles Smith-Rhodes, by the way."

The hawk nodded, offered a firm handshake, and moved on.

Horst Lensen took a deep breath. His platoon commander gave him a long slightly disbelieving look. A roofie recruit who had drawn the attention of Charles Smith-Rhodes himself. That didn't happen every day. Even to an admittedly exceptional recruit, with an interesting past prior to being conscripted. And, the Captain reflected, an interesting future in front of him. _Do I say poor bastard, or lucky bastard?_

Later there was an order to fall out. The former recruits went to the large boards where their destinations had been posted. There were groans and sighs of relief. After that there was a reunion with family members.

 _ **Fort Rapier Barracks, Piemberg, R.H.**_

Later there was an order to fall out. The former recruits went to the large boards where their destinations had been posted. There were groans and sighs of relief. After that there was a reunion with family members.

But for now Mariella Smith-Rhodes, who had been handshaken by the General and issued the ceremonial lanyard marking her as Top Recruit, noted that, as expected, Pigpen was being sent to the Catering Corps. She winced and decided to be extra careful in any cookhouses she had to eat in. The amiable and gentle Brianna Collins was being posted to the Medical Corps. Mariella hoped she was going to be seconded to a civilian hospital for the duration of her service to learn how to be a nurse. It would be the decent thing. And Anna de Vos, the suspected BOSS piemp… oh, what a surprise. Private de Vos was going directly to the _Buro vir Staatsveiligheid_ in Barnardsdop for training. Barnardsdop trained the Army's Political Section, the internal secret police. She scanned the other postings. Mainly infantry, but here and there, Pioneer Corps, one to Military Engineering, one to communications...

Captain Leyderman found her.

"Slip these on when you have a second, would you?" he requested.

She accepted the blue slip-over epaulettes of a candidate officer. _Still a recruit, but at a higher level._

 **86307257, Smith-Rhodes, M.E.: is advanced with immediate effect to the rank of Candidate Officer and posted to the Stellenbosch Krygskunde.**

"You get ten days' leave." Captain Leyderman remarked, pleasantly. "You live locally? Your family are here, by the way. Spotted your father in the crowd. But that's not difficult. He sort of stands out."

"He does, doesn't he?" she agreed. The Captain grinned.

"And you drew Stellenbosch." he remarked. "Tough to get into. They only take the best. But I suspect after the Assassins' School, anything is just that bit easier."

They shook hands.

"You're going to find it's in the main a higher order of bullshit, frankly. The real training is when you get posted to a unit. And from various notes attached to your file, _that's_ going to happen when you get to Wafa-Wafa. Put up with Stellenbosch and try not to make too many waves, and it _really_ begins for you when Crowbar Dreyer claims you. I suspect you'll thrive on that. Unorthodox soldiering with the absolute minimum of bullshit."

They exchanged a salute, and Mariella passed on with the others to the roped-off line that marked where families and friends were waiting for them. As she expected, she heard her father a long time before she saw him.

Gratefully, she crossed another _kaplyn_ back into civilian life again. For ten days, at least.

 _ **The Wynberg Barracks, Caarp Town, R.H.**_

The former recruit Horst Lensen, now a candidate officer, blinked with disbelief at the given fact he was now in one of the holiest of holies, the jealously guarded Officers' Mess. With the blue epaulettes marking his new status, he was accepted in here. It made a big difference to twenty-two weeks as the lowest of the low.

He'd almost not got in: a very big corporal at the door had challenged him and in the manner of doorkeepers everywhere, had been obstructive. He'd been told to _voetsaak._ Horst had politely stated he'd been invited to meet Mr Charles Smith-Rhodes here. The corporal had smiled unpleasantly and issued an invitation to him to pull the other one. _You?_ And one of the most powerful men in this whole bloody country? What sort of a _draadtrekker_ do you take me for?

A passing Major had intervened. Horst had politely repeated his instructions.

"Wait here." the Major said. He went inside to check. A few minutes later he returned.

"Come with me, Underofficer Lensen." he requested. "Mr Smith-Rhodes doesn't like to be kept waiting. Stand aside, corporal."

Horst reflected that every so often, life throws a sweet moment at you that can be brought out and cherished. He restrained an impulse to say "Nice to meet you, Corporal Draadtrekker", and entered.

Charles Smith-Rhodes was making small-talk with some very senior officers.

"Excuse me, please, gentlemen." he said, to a clutch that included a General, a Brigadier and several Colonels. He walked over to Horst as if greeting an old friend.

"You had time with your mother? Splendid. Met her a few weeks ago. Absolutely amazing lady. She was running that plaas virtually single-handed. Amazing determination." he remarked. "Runs in the family, I suspect. Let's find a quiet place to talk?"

He led Horst to a quiet table. People were, he realized, discreetly watching the phenomenon of a recent recruit soldier who Charles Smith-Rhodes was finding more immediately interesting than lots of gold-braided senior officers. Horst wondered if that would be a help or a hindrance.

Drinks were obtained. Horst realized this would be his first alcoholic drink in a long time and reminded himself to be careful.

"Tell me about your adventures. No need to talk about Klatch too much. I understand that's a painful memory. Start in Urabewe, would you? I've already met the other two, obviously. I'd find it interesting to hear your account."

Horst spoke of the fighting in Smithville and on the river. Charles Smith-Rhodes listened attentively, asking occasional questions. Horst realized every officer within earshot was discreetly listening in. _Well, can't help that._

"Yes. My family does tend to attract trouble. We're magnets for it. And you _were_ travelling with my niece. Striking young lady, isn't she? Gods help anyone making trouble if she and her sister are ever fighting together. They'd walk over them."

Horst belatedly remembered the family connection.

"Still, you'll be seeing her again soon. You know she's been posted to the Stellenbosch Academy too? Little coincidences like this tend to happen."

Horst wondered if Charles Smith-Rhodes might have nudged a little coincidence along. He'd have the connections to.

"Her father may or may not approve. But I can speak to Cousin Andreas later. His opinion of you has softened, by the way. People spoke to him whose opinions he respects. You might find he doesn't shout so loudly when you next visit. Anyway. You saw Chirundu, in Smith-Rhodesia? I got Mariella's report of what she saw there and how she read the place. Her friend was quite observant, too. How do _you_ read things there?"

Horst recognized a test. He'd seen the signs too. He began by speaking of their detention by the customs officers, carefully emphasizing that they'd been acting properly under law and doing their job. But it meant they'd been held incommunicado for a long time and unable to make what should have been an urgent report concerning Zulu activity on the river. He felt valuable time had been lost. And he wondered how far he could go, in a room full of officers very much senior to him, in discussing the shortcomings of Colonel van der Byl and the undeniable fact the officers serving under him had no confidence in their commander.

"Some things we can discuss more privately elsewhere." Charles Smith-Rhodes said, guessing the reason for Horst's reticence. "I've heard interesting things from Mariella. I was discussing some issues concerning Smith-Rhodesia with General Verbreek, in fact. You've got ten days' leave coming up, I believe? Would you like to spend a day or two as my house-guest? I don't want to keep you away from your home and family. Wouldn't be fair to your mother. But to be honest, I could find a young man like you to be useful. Early days yet, and you've got to graduate Officer School, and then qualify for the Slew. I hear Crowbar Dreyer's pulling strings to get you. I'm prepared to add a discreet tug here and there. If it all works out, I could consider offering you employment after your Army service is up. I suspect you would fit in pretty much perfectly. Opportunities to travel, see the world, work for my family interests, that sort of thing. I pay well, good bonuses. Interested?"

He grinned slightly.

"And considering at least _one_ horror story who managed to marry into my family – you met him in Chirundu – these days I do keep a far closer eye on my possible in-laws, however distant. Forgive me for being presumptuous, but Andreas and Agnetha suspect you might end up a lot closer to my extended family? They're not necessarily opposed, you understand. Johanna thinks you came out right in the end. And Mariella's a bright sensible girl. I wish both of you every happiness."

And that was it. Horst was politely dismissed, and went away with a growing suspicion that his personal fate was going to be linked to the Smith-Rhodes family, however it went with Mariella. He had a head-spinning suspicion that the Family had decided to nudge them together and see how it went. He wondered if Mariella had worked this out too, decided that she probably had, and had a moment of soaring exultation concerning her. The idea was somehow more exciting than the knowledge that he had seemingly made powerful contacts among an influential circle that, incredibly, saw promise in him. But Mariella?

" _Insh'Offler_." he said to himself. Time would tell. And he'd be seeing her again soon. The thought was warming.

A little later he was summoned to a discreet ante-room for a handshake and an invitation to an off-the-record chat with General Verbreek himself. Apparently Charles Smith-Rhodes had suggested it would be a good idea. Horst again related his story to an attentive listener and gave his frank impressions of Smith-Rhodesia and especially of the Chirundu Military District. Verbreek listened intently.

"I heard the Assassins' Guild teaches people well in making assessments, and weighing up situations." the general remarked. "People aren't wrong."

He weighed Horst up with a long frank stare.

"So it's the Slew for you. Hans Dreyer was pretty definite about that. I'll be watching with interest. He picks his people carefully. Looks like you've got an interesting career in front of you, young man!"

Horst Lensen then went to start his ten days leave before reporting to the Stellenbosch Krygskunde for officer training. Twelve weeks there would be followed by a posting up to Wafa-Wafa, home depot of the Selous Scouts. Alongside Mariella Smith-Rhodes. The idea made him feel both excited and anxious.

But for now, he could see the family plaas again, and get to the bottom of the story that the Smith-Rhodes family had bought out his parents and put the family firm on a healthy financial footing. Mother had been excited about the deal. Apparently the door was open for a bright and capable member of the Lensen family, possibly backed by Assassin contract money, to eventually buy back a controlling share. In the fullness of time. But for now the future was assured.

Again he wondered exactly how Mariella viewed this. He shrugged. No doubt he'd find out.

 _ **Piemburg. R.H. Later in the day.**_

"Vatti? _Do_ tell me about this really interesting investment you've made in Bitterfontein. I'd be _really interested_ in finding out more."

Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes looked uncharacteristically shifty for a moment. He scrutinized his youngest daughter.

"Well. You know. After I bought into those ideas Johanna had concerning this and that, myself and your mother discovered we suddenly had a lot more money available than we thought. Made no sense having it sitting there doing nothing. And land is always a good investment. Better than gold!"

Mariella accepted this. Johanna had realized that some fairly new and commonplace things in Ankh-Morpork were virtually unknown in Rimwards Howondaland. When first establishing the Zoo, facing the need to establish large secure animal enclosures quickly, her builders had used what eventually amounted to miles of the new, lightweight, chain-metal fencing. This, she had discovered, was made by interlinking sturdy steel wiring in such a way that when pulled tight it made a sort of honeycomb pattern. Light, used little material, and relatively cheap.

Realising this was un-known in Rimwards Howondaland, she'd conferred with Uncle Pieter and bought the rights to local manufacture at Home. Besides, Father had mentioned the impracticality and difficulty of fencing off miles and miles of his farmland. Necessary, but time-consuming and expensive in terms of materials and manpower.

Johanna had paid for a cargo of the new metal-link fencing to be sent home by sea and shipped to the family plaas. It had cost thousands. Establishing a manufacturing plant in Piemberg had cost thousands more. Father had invested heavily, seeing the potential. He'd even brought in a few Dwarves to train people in its making. And now the family investment, several years on, was paying dividends. Johanna had come up with other ideas too. Her imperative had been discovering how strapped for cash she'd become after all the expenses involved in setting up a family home in an upmarket part of Ankh. And motherhood was not cheap. She was also in a high-risk profession. Not one that could easily be combined with motherhood. Johanna had – reluctantly – decided to refrain from taking too many Assassin contracts (at least, the well-rewarded but high risk ones) and had gone into semi-retirement professionally. It was more important to be a working mother, at least for a few years. But money still had to come from somewhere. She'd thought about it and had made some shrewd orthodox investments. Both at Home and in Ankh-Morpork. There was even a bakehouse that made cakes. From cheese. A Cheesecake Factory **. (2)** Her investment there had paid off too.

And these days, Father and Mother had a big retirement pot. Not that he'd ever retire, of course. And a shrewd knack for investing.

Mariella decided to probe further.

"Was it _entirely_ a coincidence you chose to buy out the Lensen plaas and turn it about?" she pushed.

Her father looked shifty again. He went to a cabinet and brought out a bottle and two glasses. Her mother winced.

"I like a drink at the end of the day." he said. "So buying the plaas that makes the stuff. Seemed like a good idea. And this is good klipdrift. Hendricka Lensen knows her trade."

He poured two glasses and passed one to Mariella.

"Let's drink to your passing out, hey? Get those other girls in here. The ones you brought home with you. Toast them all!"

Barbarossa had genially invited Twenty-Three to come and stay for a few days, if they had a mind. Those girls who were from furthest away, whose families were too distant to get to in a ten-day leave, had accepted the offer. Staying with _somebody's_ family, and seeing civilian normality before their postings, had been gratefully accepted. A dozen of the original platoon were staying as guests for a few days. Use of the Clacks to send letters home had been a generous gift. The farm's goblin community had been busy. Goblins to run the clacks and generally be useful had been another of Johanna's ideas. They kept down rats and rabbits, and acted as another deterrent to prowling lions, for one thing. Barbarossa appreciated their way with machinery.

"Might be an idea if you went out there and took a look." her father said, with studied innocence. Mariella's eyes narrowed.

"At the plaas, Vatti? Or at the _son_?"

Her mother smiled. Her father looked innocent.

"Well. He stands to have a role there. In the fullness. I'm forced to say he's not a bad boy. A girl could do worse."

" _Boer soek n'vrou_." Mariella's mother said, firmly. Mariella winced. She'd got the general idea. A traitorous thought in the back of her mind told her not to be hasty. She could consent to walking out with him. Just once or twice. To see how it went. It might keep Mother off her case. He wasn't a total _bliksem_ , she conceded.

And a little voice in her head was saying _En een meisie soek n'Boer_. Again she winced.

And then the girls of Twenty-Three were streaming in and glasses of Lensen family klipdrift were being passed out. The discussion relating to Horst Lensen was dropped. For now.

 _ **Ankh-Morpork. The Springboek Club, Scoone Avenue.**_

As faster foreign travel opened up and lots of Rimwards Howondalandians were able to get to Ankh-Morpork, there had been a few regrettable incidents in the City involving what the Watch officially termed "cultural differences". The Embassy had been involved in dealing with the consequences, which didn't always involve fatalities.

The Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy was graced with extensive gardens and attached land. Scoone Avenue was that sort of a street. Pieter van der Graaf had conferred with designers and architects, and an annex to the mansion that housed the Embassy had been developed as a social club with the usual round of bars and eating facilities. Opening up the Springboek Club as a social centre for emigrés meant that the Rimwards Howondalandian community in the City had a place of its own, the Embassy could keep a benevolent eye on its people, newcomers could be advised as to the different social norms prevailing here and _habituated,_ and the place could be rented out for social gatherings and receptions. These days, it turned a healthy profit. It also served as an unofficial clubhouse for the emigré Llamedosian Rule Fifteen-A-Side teams who called themselves The Springboeks. People sometimes complained about the noise. Those who spoke Vondalaans sometimes complained about the _songs_.

Today a largely female contingent were bustling about the Club setting up for an engagement party. Friejda van der Graaf, the Ambassador's wife and aunt of one of the soon-to-be-married couple, was taking charge of this side of things, working alongside Gretha van Kruger, mother of the other half of the marriage. Her daughter Heidi, displaced by her mother, had given up trying to make any input and was assisting with hanging up green-and-gold drapery in the team colours. Heidi speculated on how long ornamental drapery and meticulous floral arrangements would last in a room full of foot-the-ball players. She gave it twenty minutes. Tops. And possibly thirty, before somebody started singing the one about Auntie Tina.

"Such a shame Agnetha and Andreas can't make it." Friejda remarked. "But they have Mariella's passing-out parade to attend. I hear she's destined for officer service. I hope she gets a good prestigious regiment."

 _She will_ , Heidi thought. _"The Slew. Although an élite fighting Kommando which isn't heavy on bullshit and immaculate parade uniforms probably isn't what Friejda –_ **Aunt** _Friejda – has in mind._

"I'm hoping she goes to the Ceremonial Guard." Friejda went on. "Sebokeng Barracks in Pratoria. Handy for society events. And the uniform is _lovely_. Mariella is such a strikingly pretty girl. The parade uniform would make her look so beautiful."

Heidi exchanged a wry grin with Johanna Smith-Rhodes. Friejda – _**Aunt**_ Friejda - was in for a disappointment, then. Not the ornate immaculate green-and-gold of the Guards and the formal but impractical shako. More crumpled and stained jungle camouflage and a battered slouch hat.

"Mariella in the _Houtkopjies_?" Johanna said, amused. "Can't see it."

Heidi grinned. _Woodentops_ was a derisory name for the Guards. They weren't thought of as real fighting soldiers, more a good-looking ceremonial adornment that every Army had to have for prestige and window-dressing. Recruits who looked good and took a perverted pleasure in cleaning, pressing, polishing and foot-drill were vectored there. That way they could serve a useful purpose and be kept out of the way of real soldiering. Johanna knew the Ceremonial Guard resented this assumption on the part of the rest of the Army and made strenuous attempts to prove it could fight when it had to. But the slander was more fun than the truth. And it did, undeniably, attract officers of a Rust, Selachii and Venturi frame of mind, who valued being in a prestigious barracks in the national capital a long way from slumming it in a pigsty barracks on a frontier, hundreds of miles away from polite society and all the things that made life worthwhile.

"Julian's travelling in from Quirm, isn't he?" Heidi asked. Johanna nodded.

" _Ja._ It'll be nice to see him again. And Ruth's going to pop in for a little while. You know. With the Guild party."

"That should be fun." Heidi said. "Danie's promised to put the warning out to treat her right. Anyone who gets a bit snotty with her being black and a Zulu. Danie's threatened to drop them from the side if they do. That's if they're still capable of standing up, that is."

They contemplated Ruth N'Kweze's likely reaction to anyone questioning the presence of a black woman at an event where White Howondalandians would dominate. People had indeed been warned.

"I want her here." Heidi said. "She's a colleague and a friend. And it's _my_ bloody party."

In the background, the professional musicians hired for the occasion were rehearsing. Aunt Friejda had provided instructions and sheet-music to some _respectable_ songs **.(3)** The band's leader, a competent-looking young woman of Cenotian appearance whose stage name was Rikki Gold, had nodded and accepted that she shouldn't worry about the words being in _Vondalaans_. Rikki had also accepted, with the dogged pragmatic fatalism of a professional musician who does lots of family gigs, that other people would be coming forward to lead the singing of those songs, and all the musicians had to do was to accommodate them. Rikki sighed. Family members who _thought_ they were good singers who needed to be carried. _Gevalt_. It was what she was paid for. To rescue the resulting mess and to make bad singers sound as good as was possible.

She sat at the piano and practiced the introduction to the Vondalaander Heart Hymn. It had become popular in Cenotia after the Golem Heights business and now had Cenotian words. Here it would be performed right at the end of the night to close the party. It was an accepted pragmatic purpose of a National Anthem, after all.

Rikki hoped they'd put somebody forward who could actually _sing_.

Meanwhile Johana, Heidi and others went on with drape-hanging.

* * *

 _Damn. The next chapter,_ _ **Party Night**_ _, will REALLY close this one and put it to bed. I'm now on 5400 words. Upper limit again._

 **(1)** That man Bok van Blerk again… it's another ear-worm. From context it was written to be an anthem to sing at Springboeks rugby games. Collaboration with Robbie Wessels, normally a musical comedian (Think of an Afrikaaner Max Boyce, but perhaps funnier), being deadly serious here. And damn. You can hear a military band performing it as a triumphant slow march. Very rough and loose translation of **_Ons Vir Jou, Suid-Afrika,_** conveying the general attitude:

 _You look upon heroes, with the strength of the earth;_

 _We'll fight till the end for the land of our birth!_

 _We are yours, Howondaland…_

 _Firm as rock in the hardest sea, are our folk, 'gainst the enemy,_

 _We are yours, Howondaland!_

 **(2)** I know. _**The Many Worlds Interpretation**_ again. Patience.

 **(3)** With pragmatic good sense and knowing some things were _inevitable_ , Johanna Smith-Rhodes had discreetly provided such sheet music as was available to the _Tannie Tina_ song, the _Bokkie nie ne worry_ chant, and some of the less reputable songs Aunt Friejda was trying to avoid.

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**


	42. Full Circle: Party Night

_**Home thoughts from abroad. Or abroad thoughts from Home. Or something.**_

 _ **Chapter Forty -Two: Party Night**_

 _ **In which things get recursive and return to the starting point. It seems the only way to wrap this monster up. For now.**_

 _ **Dipping into Traffic Stats again. The majority of my readers are from Britain and the USA. Perhaps inevitable. But the third-placed nation is Holland. I have lots of Dutch readers! Even though the "second language" of this fic is, for inevitable reasons, Afrikaans – or because of it?**_ _ **Lezers uit Nederland.**_ _ **Ga direct naar mijn verhaal**_ **The Black Sheep** _ **. Dit gaat over de Schijfwereld's "Holland". Dank je.**_ _ **(South Africa is now in the top ten of my readership-nations. Hei, Suid-Afrika! Groete an almal!)**_

 _ **After Holland, the next two countries that figure are Canada and Australia. Anyone from Quebec out there? Any Wallabies or Wallabettes?**_

 _ **Oh… and an Israeli readership is creeping in again. Shalom! I hope "Cenotia" is taken in the best possible spirit!**_

 _ **Slight edit to tidy up. And still tinkering... playlist added.  
**_

 _ **Ankh-Morpork, Old Coathanger Elk Park.(1)**_

The Springboeks had played a tough game against Ankh-Morpork Llamedosians. Draws are rare in fifteen-a-side, but this one had ended at twenty-six all. As the red and green shirts streamed off the field, Springboeks captain Danie Smith-Rhodes found his forward motion barred by the most determined blocking tackle of them all. Wisely, he decided to concede this one.

"Good game." Heidi van Kruger said. "Enjoyed it."

She held out a formal suit in a laundry's protective cover.

"Get a bath. Tidy up. Brush your hair. Then put this on. We've got an engagement reception to go to. _Ours_ , in case it slipped your mind. I'll wait for you outside the dressing rooms. There'll be a cab waiting."

Danie grinned at her.

"Got to love you, Heids." he said.

Heidi smiled back.

"And, Gods help me, I love you too. Gods only know _why_." she said.

The Llamedosian team captain Mervyn Davies grinned at her through broken and missing teeth.

"We yeard as how he yas his nuptialls coming up, miss." he said. "I said to my boyos here, if you has to tackle Danie, be fair, llike. Spare his face, as he yas to look good in iconographs tonight. You have to bring down Danie Smith-Rhodes, try and hit him where it does not show. And not to hit him in the box regions, either. Think of his poor intended."

Danie grinned.

"You're a bro, Merv. Coming tonight?"

"You keep me away, boy!"

Heidi smiled and shook her head slightly. Aunt Friejda was just going to have to adjust her expectations. Foot-the-Ball players, off the field, were a tight-knit bunch. A band of brothers. There'd be _lots_ of them there tonight.

 _ **The Springboek Club, Ankh-Morpork.**_

Johanna Smith-Rhodes, with the help of teaching assistants and senior students, had marshalled together all the invited school pupils and got them over to the Embassy. She had reminded the younger ones to avoid alcohol, although a symbolic glass of wine would be permitted at the correct time. Older pupils had been informed that discreet drinking would be permitted, but be sensible and do _not_ become incapably or offensively drunk. Your House teachers will be looking out for this on your return. Look upon this as an exercise in attending a social gathering and behaving appropriately to the occasion. Do _not_ forget the ambassador's wife and other civic dignitaries will be present. Lady Friejda _will_ expect good behaviour. There is a running buffet. Help yourselves. And enjoy the afternoon and evening. Students for whom _Vondalaans_ is not a first language might see this as an opportunity to apply their language skills in a practical setting. _And I just bet they'll come back with interestingly expanded vocabularies,_ she thought _. And learn a few songs._

Johanna thought of her sister Mariella. And smiled quietly to herself. She had a surprise or two in store. Feeling hungry, she went over to see how the _braai en slaai_ was coming along. There was nothing like the comforts of home cooking.

 _ **Piemberg, Rimwards Howondaland.**_

Mariella relaxed in the warm evening sunshine with those from Twenty-Three Platoon who'd elected to spend a few days' pre-posting leave as guests of the Smith-Rhodes family. They appreciated the still quietness of having nothing to do and all afternoon to do it in. Two days before, they'd been run ragged as Army recruits. Now the unaccustomed lack of activity was welcome, but disorientating.

"You must feel disappointed you can't make it to your brother's engagement party, Sproet?" Brianna Collins asked.

Mariella shrugged.

"Ag. Family on two continents. There's another coming up in Magersfontein for all the family and friends over here. I can make it to _that_ one." she said. "I still think she's crazy, but you can't tell her that."

And then something happened in the sky over the farm. The girls craned their necks to look. Mariella had a suspicion. She'd seen this before…

 _ **Bitterfontein, Rimwards Howondaland.**_

" _Haai oe Blommie!"_ Hendricka Lensen exclaimed. She looked up in surprise. "what on Disc is _that_?"

Her son Horst looked up. He hadn't actually seen it with his own eyes, having been unconscious, delirious or just somewhere else when they'd landed, but he'd heard about them, and he knew people who had. He'd travelled the continent with two people to whom this was routine.

"I believe it's a Pegasus, mother." he said, mildly. He watched as the winged white horse circled, and spiralled downwards. It landed on the Lensen family lawn with all four hooves, neighed and shook itself.

"Greetings to ye, Horst Lensen." a familiar voice said from the mane. "Glad am I to see thee well and healthy."

"Miss Kirstie." Horst said, politely. The Not-A-Kelda was sitting in the mane. "Mother, this is Kirstie. She brought healing to me when I was ill."

He didn't recognise the witch who was piloting the Pegasus. She vaulted off the saddle and walked over.

"Hi. You'll be Horst Lensen. I'm Irena Politek. I was asked to find you and offer you an evening in Ankh-Morpork."

"Guild business?" Horst asked, taking her hand.

"Indirectly. You'll see a lot of Guild people. One in particular. Johanna Smith-Rhodes asked if we could ferry you over for a few hours. We can bring you back later, or tomorrow morning."

Irena explained further. Horst realised. His heart leapt. He explained to his mother.

"Then you _must_ go." Hendricka said. " _Boer soek n'vrou_. And she sounds a lovely girl!"

She looked down at a group of Feegle who had realised exactly what sort of a _plaas_ they'd landed on. They were excitedly sniffing the air and speculating on having arrived in Heaven. She looked down and frowned at them. Horst had told her about Feegle. And she ran a vineyard and distillery. It was like having chimpanzees in a banana plantation.

"There is to be no theft in my plaas." she said, making her position very clear. "But as Horst is attending a party, it is right that he should bring at least one bottle. Come with me."

The Feegle obediently followed.

"I warn you, there's going to be _quaffing_." Irena said. "But we've got good laundries, when your uniform gets distressed."

And then Hendricka returned, supervising Feegle who were carrying bottles and a case of wine.

"Strong little fellows, aren't they?" she said to Kirstie.

"Aye, mistress." Kirstie agreed. She turned to her brothers. "No opening those bottles till we arrive. There will be drink, and ye will be welcome. But no drinking till we arrive. This I command."

 _ **Piemberg, Rimwards Howondaland.**_

"I see." Mariella Smith-Rhodes said. The idea amused and entertained her. "But you already have Eddie on the pillion?"

Edouard de Kockamaainje, Olga's boyfriend, smiled sheepishly. He'd been introduced to Mariella and the others.

Lieutenant Olga Romanoff grinned and went to the large pannier behind the saddle. She spoke an arcane word and pulled something out, with some effort. Then pulled. Then pulled some more. Mariella went to assist.

"Bag of Holding." Olga explained. It had the resigned note of a Witch who had to deal with Wizards' approach to things magical, and managed to imply that _sometimes_ it might be useful, but why do they always have to over-complicate things? "Eddie's been working on the idea with some other wizards at the University here. Bigger on the inside than on the outside. Can some of you girls help… thanks."

It took six people, in the end. But brought out and unrolled, it was a very big carpet, of the sort described as a "room-size remnant."

"The Bag of Holding also has negative mass. Or something. Things you put into it don't weigh. In this dimension, anyway. Apparently it all balances out." Olga said.

Eddie smiled. He was also a jobbing Wizard with a scholarly bias towards practical research. He was primarily employed these days as a local link-man for the Pegasus Service. Of course he'd be entitled to flying time. Mariella reflected on how much he looked like a local Vondalaander version of Ponder Stibbons.

"We're quite proud of that. The official reason for my travelling by Pegasus is to discuss the idea with colleagues at Unseen University. Ponder Stibbons is _very_ excited. Patrician Vetinari said the concept might have applications."

"And _un_ officially." Olga said. "This flying carpet can attach to the back of the saddle by a towing rope. No strain on the Pegasus. The negative mass thing again. Proven technomancy. We can manage up to thirty people. So I reckon that if I drop Eddie _exactly_ where Ponder Stibbons is at this very moment, the official job is completed. The destination just happens to be at the engagement party for his wife's brother. So just incidentally, we can fit a few more passengers in."

Olga paused and grinned.

"As your sister Johanna pointed out." she added.

Mariella did some quick mental arithmetic. Thirteen of us from Twenty-Three. My parents. Brother, sister, their spouses. Up to eleven others…

"Let's do it." she said.

"Err… isn't it a court-martial offence to leave the country without permission, whilst in the Army **?"(2)** Brianna Collins asked, nervously.

Mariella grinned at her.

"Who's to know?" she said, reasonably. "We'll be back here tomorrow. And the way I see it, we _deserve_ a night out. We've all got access to twenty-two weeks' pay we weren't able to spend. And I happen to know the bar at the Springboek Club accepts rand."

Twenty-Three unanimously decided to have a night out. They'd invade Ankh-Morpork. Just for the night.

 _ **The Springboek Club, Ankh-Morpork.**_

The club was filling up. There was continual traffic between the bar, the large function room, and the _braai_ set up outside. For those who temperamentally preferred the usual range of party food, a cold running buffet had been established indoors. The van Kruger parents were notionally hosting their daughter's engagement, but Pieter van der Graaf and his wife were present, the Ambassador taking time out for a major social gathering of those compatriots present in Ankh-Morpork. And drawn by the _braai_ and a cheap bar, practically every Rimwards Howondalandian in the City would be calling by. As indeed were City dignitaries, and representative members of every Foot-and-Hand-The-Ball team in the League. Danie was a well respected figure in that community. And very well liked by his peers.

"This must be costing hundreds." Ponder Stibbons remarked. Johanna shrugged.

"Ag. A lot of us chipped in. We manage. And Uncle Pieter gets a budget for hospitality. He thought a community social event to bring everyone together is a legitimate expense, and something an Embassy should do. Better than feeding other diplomats, he said."

Johanna looked at the clock. Four forty-five. About now games that kicked off at three would be reaching the final whistle _. Give it another three-quarters of an hour, time for players to bathe, change and travel… things should get lively._ She smiled to herself.

Mustrum Ridcully ambled over with a piled plate from the braai. He was looking forward to the evening. It promised ample food, lots of drink and a chance for dubious song. In a way he was in a sort of heaven for the night.

"Your people do good catering, m'dear." he said to Johanna. "Good meat and lots of it. Good beer, too!"

"Make yourself at home, arch-chancellor." she said. She looked over to where a group of children were happily playing. Several nannies were nominally in charge. There were also lots of mothers and _tannies_. She had no worries there, but reflected that it might be a good idea to get Annaliese and the others to get the kids home to bed, before they had their vocabularies prematurely expanded by some of the more interesting songs that were bound to happen later.

"Shame your father can't make it." Ridcully said. "I get on with Barbarossa. Fellow after me own heart. Did I tell you when I was over for yer wedding, he took me out hunting? Said it was best to let the women get on with things, and he'd just do what was expected, and pay the bills. Ye gods, your country has got some interestin' wildlife!"

Johanna smiled. Mustrum Ridcully and her father had hit it off instantly and greeted each other like long-lost brothers. He'd stayed on for a day or two after the wedding and there'd apparently been an issue with a rogue lion. Given that Barbarossa had thrown a crossbow to Ridcully, whistled up three or four ridgebacks and said and said "Got a problem. Coming, Mustrum?", the lion, an elderly male cast out from a pride and taking desperate measures to get a meal, had very soon ceased to be a problem. The two hunters had also taken a bottle of brandy with them as well as crossbows, and had continued bonding. Some interesting songs had been heard on the Veldt. Her mother had frowned a lot afterwards. Words had been spoken.

Johanna wondered if there was a big enough space to accommodate both her father and Mustrum Ridcully at the same time. She imagined the rules of space and dimension needed to rethink themselves. Still, Wizards were good at that sort of thing.

"Wish I was forty years younger." Ridcully sighed. "We've got a University side in the lower leagues. Some of the younger fellows and the kind of students who haven't started getting fat yet. Fine young chaps who stay out of the dining room and believe in healthy exercise. They're coming on, but nowhere near as good at it as your people. Early days, yet. Good to see a new trend in wizardry. Eat less, play hard, and quaff with the best after the game."

Ponder nodded appreciatively. He'd once had to play the other sort of Foot-The-Ball, the eleven-a-side code. Once, in his opinion, had been _more_ than enough **.(3)** Johanna had agreed. She'd quietly got Matron Igorina to patch him up afterwards.

These days his role had been to do the diplomacy stuff, in the wake of a Wizards' team being formed in the fifteen-a-side code. The rules of fifteen-a-side had been hastily redrafted to, for instance, prohibit levitation spells in the line-out and mass-enhancement spells used to bolster the scrum. "No Magic!" was now a firm rule. Ponder had negotiated the concession that healing magic could be used for minor injuries, provided both teams playing had equal access to a magical practitioner. But in practice wounded players preferred Igors and more conventional medicine. Magical healing could be haphazard.

He sighed. At least it wasn't the City Watch side. This attracted the sort of policeman who well knew that many people would relish an opportunity to legally and legitimately stick one on a copper. The attitude of the Watch team was "Bring it on!" The Watch had also tested the rules of the game. The governing body of Llamedosian Rules Fifteen-A-Side had felt it necessary to add an never-before-needed explicit rule that said "Human Players Only!" after the business with the hooker, the core of the scrum, being a golem. With two trolls as flankers **.(4)** Nobby Nobbs had tried out as scrum-half, the traditionally lightly-built nimble player who feeds the ball to the scrum. This had worked. Opposing players were strangely reluctant to tackle him. He was also lethal in a ruck or maul. He'd finally been banned from play on the pretext that his habit of smoking cigarettes in loose mauls was both disgusting and dangerous: the Rules Committee had been looking for an excuse for some time. While it could look the other way concerning kidney punches and a degree of eye-gouging (so long as nobody got blinded and the player doing it made sure it was on the referee's blind side), the incandescent end of a cigarette was held to be unfair play.

In fact, just about every nationality, trade association, city district and Guild now sponsored teams. Most of them had at least one representative here. Even Sam Vimes had slipped in, on the grounds that as a neighbour to what promised to be a noisy party, he may as well get _some_ benefit. And a good run at the braai, before Sybil noticed.

Johanna and Ponder joined in the cheering and applause as the Springboek team arrived, with supporters and Bokkie Babes, fanning out as a guard of honour for Danie and Heidi. _Now_ the party could begin.

And possibly an hour later, a noisy and excited group of Rimwards Howondalandian soldiers arrived, most blinking at the sudden transition from a warm evening at home to a greyer and cooler one in Ankh-Morpork. Pieter van der Graaf blinked in surprise as a phalanx of uniformed girl soldiers oriented themselves and surged for the bar. In their way, as unstoppable as a Springboeks scrum.

Johanna looked on in quiet unsurprise as one of the soldiers recognised her.

"See you made it, then." she said, with laconic understatement.

"Catch me staying away?" Mariella said.

The two sisters hugged. Mariella was back, then, to where it had all began. Even if it was only for the evening.

And then there was a huge bellow of "Mustrum!"

And the room suddenly became just that little bit smaller.

More Assassins had turned up. Johanna's particular friends Alice Band and Emmanuelle de Lapoignard, for instance. Both were keen to wish Heidi the best. Other Assassins had accompanied them.

There were reunions and greetings everywhere.

"Tell me who did that to your hair." Rivka ben-Devorah said, scrutinising the ruin of her best friend's locks. "I'll track them down. And at least break their fingers. Their scissors will also go into a very uncomfortable place. Pro-bono. And only because you're a friend."

Mariella hugged her best friend. They had a bit of catching-up to do.

Alice Band smiled benevolently.

"I remember meeting somebody else who'd just come out of her country's army." she remarked. She nodded at Johanna. "It grows back quickly enough. There are worse things to get chopped off. That _don't_ grow back."

Alice, in an uncharacteristic display of public affection, hugged Mariella quickly.

"I'm bloody glad to see you. Let me buy you both a drink. I don't say this often, but I'm proud of you two."

And elsewhere…

"Hey! Ruthie!"

Ruth N'Kweze had taken a deep breath and walked into what she sensed was going to be a difficult place. It was White Howondaland's Embassy, for one thing. On her first visit here, at the Springboek Club, she'd been part of an Assassins' Guild assignment **.(5)** Pieter van der Graaf had never forgotten. And she was a Zulu. It was like being a gazelle walking into a lions' enclosure.

She took a deep breath and walked in. Conversation stopped. Usually the only black-skinned people in this place were servants.

And then Danie Smith-Rhodes had stepped up to her, grinned his great big delighted _Glad-to-see-you_ grin, and hugged her. He'd done that the first time they'd met, introduced by Johanna, and gone straight to a very informal "Ruthie". It had been refreshing and different. Not what she'd expected. Danie had said, asked if her being a Zulu had made any difference at all, that "Hell, no! you're a friend of big sister, and you're a friend of Heids. That's good enough for me."

She liked him.

And right now he'd just made it very clear that here, she was welcome. And people were taking notice of that. She relaxed.

"Come over and get a drink, Ruthie." Danie said. He cheerfully, and she suspected deliberately, waved to Verkramp, the Embassy's ridiculous-but-toxic political officer. A lot of Embassy people were here. Ruth remembered Julian was taking the train in from Quirm, where he was based. This warmed her, but she realised they had to be careful. In public. _We can be properly together later_ , she thought. It was worth waiting for.

 _ **Caarp Town, Rimwards Howondaland. Jacarinthia House.**_

Charles Smith-Rhodes re-stoppered the brandy decanter and passed out the full glasses. Cigars had been lit. His small select group of guests appreciated his hospitality. And they'd concluded some useful business of national importance, almost as an incidental consideration to a very good dinner.

"So we're agreed, then?" Charles said, genially. The Minister of State for Defence nodded. General Verbreek indicated his approval.

Charles picked up one of the draft movement orders. The Minister for Foreign Affairs had yet to approve it. But he would. Charles had no doubt about that.

"With immediate effect. Kolonel Pieter Fleming van der Byl relinquishes command of the Chirundu Military District. He is posted to the appointment of Military Attaché at the Embassy in Aceria and will travel at the earliest available opportunity. Liutnant-Kolonel Hans Dreyer is promoted to the temporary rank of full Kolonel and will take up the interim position of Commandant of the Chirundu Military District, until such time as a permanent commander can be appointed…"

"Hard luck on the ambassador in Aceria." Verbreek said. "But not a strategically important posting. Van der Byl can't do too much damage there. In any case, if he really annoys the Acerians, they're refreshingly direct people. They'll punch him on the nose, or something."

Charles smiled slightly.

"He can't complain. Aceria has some seriously big game to hunt. Grizzly bears, for one thing. Rather large mountain lions. A sort of Yeti too, I hear. Apparently with rather large feet. If the ambassador has got any sense, he'll allow the man to have long leaves in the countryside. Inclement winter conditions. Interesting weather. Big game that's more than capable of fighting back. Should be perfect for the chap."

He smiled again. _And with any luck, my poor deluded cousin Marguerite can collect the insurance policies and compensation money, grieve for a while as a widow should, and find a better man next time._

General Verbreek looked thoughtful for a moment.

"And we get the Chirundu district shaken up and re-organised by a man who knows where the problems are, has the ability to galvanise people, and most importantly, will be kept so busy getting to grips with an expanded command that he has no time to launch a private war against the Zulus. Even if he still has the inclination."

"Everybody benefits." Charles Smith-Rhodes said. "The Crowbar gets one of our most strategically important border commands fit for purpose, we monitor the situation, and when everything's sound, we shake him by the hand, tell him well done, he's to hand over to the new permanent area commander, then give him his front-line command back."

He paused, and added

"He should have got his draft of new roofies by then, to break in."

Verbreek and the minister nodded.

"Who include your interesting niece, and that young man who has a lot of potential." said the General. "Impressive young chap, Lensen. This Guild of Assassins gives amazing training."

"I have high hopes for them both." Charles said. "I like to keep an eye on my extended family. After all, it's generally expected of an uncle that he looks kindly and favourably on nieces and nephews. Did I mention another nephew of mine's getting married soon? The young lady in question is a graduate Assassin with a proven record. Lovely girl, by the way, from Magersfontein. My family can never have too many skilled professional people in it. Useful people. They should have had my congratulatory card by now."

They moved on to the second posting order. General de Ruijst was to be congratulated for his time in command of the wider Maniacaland province, given a face-saving extra star to put on his epaulettes and a bit more gold braid on his cap, then moved sideways and across a bit to a more suitable command.

They discussed a suitable command for de Ruijst. More brandy was poured.

Inspector-General of Field Latrines was suggested. As was the vital post of Inspector-General of Miscellaneous Procurement Services. You know. Lavatory paper, contracts to ship food waste from the back of the cookhouse to local pig farms, bin liners, waste recycling, that sort of thing. Got to be environmentally friendly in these modern times.

 _ **The Springboek Club, Ankh-Morpork.**_

"You've had a jolly good run at the barbecue, Sam." Sybil Ramkin said, looking down at the large plate in his hands. There was, in keeping with the thing, a small piece of lettuce and a single slice of tomato on there. Just for the look of the thing. Sam had indeed had several good runs at the braai. But with his home only a few doors down the street, news had inevitably got back to Sybil, and she'd caught up with him.

 _Ah well. It was good while it lasted._

"Johanna tells me this is, what do they call it, _braai and slaai_. Barbecue and salad. Well, Sam, you've had the _braai_. Now it's time for you to load that plate with a damn sight more _slaai,_ don't you think? Let's start with some of this interesting savoury porridge. Got to be jolly wholesome. Yummy. Good for you…"

And Sam Vimes found himself the only man at a _braai_ to get a plateful of the _mealiepap_ and to be expected to eat it all up, as it was jolly good for him. He took this philosophically. Sybil smiled benevolently and went off for a good chin-wag with Lady Friejda, and an introduction to the young lady who was getting married, to Johanna's brother, I believe?

 _And elsewhere…_

" _Mon vieux_!" the Quirmian voice said into his ear from a short distance away. "Such a surprise to see you here, _cher ami_. I distinctly remember a contract in which I was required to escort you onto a boat to Howondaland, with the clear understanding you did not return to this continent. _Ever._ " **(6)**

Balthazar Smith-Rhodes winced. He'd been going about such business as there was on the family plaas when the Pegasus had arrived and a large magic carpet had been produced from nowhere. Of course he'd jumped on. _Ag_. Family gathering. Who wouldn't have? Barbarossa had nodded approval. Agnetha had said "He's entitled." And Mariella, lovely girl, would have insisted. Compared to a five-week sea voyage, he simply hadn't been prepared for getting back here so bloody quickly. No wonder Vetinari kept this method of travel under tight control.

He'd quietly enjoyed it so far, seeking to keep out of eye-contact with Sam Vimes, saying a voluble "hello!" to his brother-in-law Pieter van der Graaf, who had winced at his presence, making a big thing of kissing Friejda's hand, and discreetly eating and drinking.

But the pineapple in his personal fruit-basket had caught up with him. She was standing behind his left shoulder and no doubt had a hand on her sword-hilt. Balthazar Smith-Rhodes winced and sweated slightly.

"I have never failed in a contract before, _mon ami_." she said. "It is not so much the prospect of reimbursing the contract fee, you understand. It is the damage to my professional reputation."

Balthazar sweated for a moment or two longer. Then he heard Emmanuelle laugh softly.

"But I believe tonight I can overlook this. You are here for family, after all. And I believe you will be returning as swiftly when this night is done. Just do not attempt, or even _think_ , of borrowing money from Johanna, or getting her to stand as guarantor for your gambling debts. Now let us have a drink together?"

Emmanuelle offered him her arm. Relived and flattered, he allowed himself to be escorted to the bar.

 _And elsewhere…_

"You don't _have_ to eat the mealiepap, Mr Vimes." Johanna said, sympathetically. Sam Vimes sighed resignedly. "Sybil's here." he said. This explained a lot. Johanna patted his arm in a sympathetic way.

"You know, Johanna. Life was a bit easier when there was only _one_ Smith-Rhodes in this city." Vimes said. "Namely, you. A good reason for me to be here tonight, apart from being an invited neighbour, is that there are… let's count them up, shall we? You. Your brothers and sisters..."

"Andreas, Agnetha, Danie end Mariella." Johanna said, helpfully.

"Five so far. Their husbands and wives. Or equivalent of. Including that striking young man in his best Army uniform who has just walked in, who is completely failing to look as inconspicuous as he seemed to hope, and who Mariella is now speaking to. Somewhat heatedly. Guild student, wasn't he? I vaguely recognise his face."

"Horst Lensen, Mr Vimes. Viper House."

"So ten of your family members, or nearest thing to, so far. Your parents. That cheating conniving con-man grifter uncle of yours. Can't nick him here, as this is technically not Ankh-Morporkian soil. And I _do_ hope he is going straight back to Howondaland afterwards? Your cousin Julian. By the way, do we count _his_ lady-friend?"

"Best not go there, Mr Vimes?"

Your niece. A student at the Guild School. She hasn't annoyed Alice enough yet to have done the Vimes Run, but no doubt this will happen. And her friend, who has something of an interesting status with your family…"

"Emma Roydes, Mr Vimes. Raven House."

"And an unfortunate name. Some parents, eh?" Vimes shook his head. "Anyway. Fourteen so far? Then there's your own two little girls. Who both have interesting potential for the future."

"Best edd Agnetha end Andreas' other children, Mr Vimes."

Vimes sighed. Twenty-odd people either born or married into the Smith-Rhodes family. In the same place. At once. In _his_ city. It was, he observed, like that thing Leonard of Quirm warns about, getting too much explosive metal like Gaspodium in the same place at once. _Critical mass_ , or something. A critical mass of Smith-Rhodeses. The potential for one huge bang.

Johanna smiled at him. Otto Chriek the vampire iconographer had shown up. She had a vague feeling that if Cousin Suki didn't walk in through the door very soon squealing " _What a story!",_ then her cousin was losing her touch. Otto was insisting on getting the happy couple together for iconographs, and, my vord, the _whole_ Smith-Rhodes family? Together? This demands family iconographs! Everybody will be pleased to assemble? Herr Barbarossa would be pleased to oblige? _Danke!_

Johanna excused herself, and assisted in rounding up her wider family.

 _And elsewhere..._

"I'll speak to you later." Mariella said to Horst. " _Jou bliksem_."

"That sounded almost affectionate." Rivka observed. Mariella frowned at her. She smiled. "Hey, come on, Horst. _I'm_ pleased to see you. Come and have a drink with me."

Rivka took him by the arm and led him to the bar. Horst Lensen allowed himself to be led. Having the good favours of a notorious Scary Mary on his side was a relief. There were quite a lot of black uniforms here and – he couldn't help but notice – a big representation of his former teachers. It was like being back at school again. Among a lot of people who had known of the old Horst Lensen. And what a ridiculous idiot he'd been. He sighed. Coming back was in its way overpowering. It meant confronting the ghost of his old self and the not-very-favourable impression he'd left for seven years. At least his old House Master, Mr Mericet, who had arrived as escort to Miss Sanderson-Reeves for the obligatory social drink with a colleague, had nodded at him and, incredibly, said

"Mr Lensen. I'm forced to admit you emerged as a far better person than many people, including me, could ever reasonably have expected. I'm very nearly gratified."

That was as near as Mericet ever got to praise.

The terrifying Miss Sanderson-Reeves had even smiled slightly and said "In the circumstances, jolly well done. You came out right in the end, and that's what counts."

And there had been a very public handshake of approval. In front of a lot of students who remembered the idiot and who had been inclined to nudge and giggle. It went a long way.

And Mariella.

He'd arrived during the obligatory round of speeches, made while the mass of people present were sober enough to be attentive. He had recognised the commanding presence of Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes, who was holding the floor, and winced, recalling the stern and above all _loud_ words Mariella's father had delivered back in Piemberg. He'd have to be seen in front of him, paying court to her…

"Well, now. I wasn't expecting to be here tonight and neither was Danie's mother. I'm sorry we were not able to send word, as it was all pretty much last minute, but I'm glad we're here. Very glad. Makes it more of a family thing. And to be honest, I was not expecting to see my son Danie make so much of himself in this town. Anyone who knows the boy will know he needs a damned hard kick up the guava to stir him and get him to do things…"

Horst had thought he'd walked in discreetly and unregarded. He'd soon been disabused of this. The fact that several seemingly self-propelled bottles of brandy, and crates of wine seemingly moving under their own volition, had zipped across the floor at speed, had _certainly_ been noticed.

One of the foot-the-ball players had nudged a friend and said

"Am I that drunk already?"

His friend, front-row forward Kafferpak de Uitnek, had reached down and lifted one of the bottles off the floor as it passed. He had discovered the other end was being fiercely gripped by a five-inch tall blue-skinned Feegle. Who had glared up at him, legs dangling, and said

"Hey, china. This is gannin' tae the _bar_. Or ye gets a faceful o'heid. And by the look of ye' neb, you've had a few facefuls of heid in your time, and you'll know what it feels like."

Kafferpak, a man no stranger to confrontation, had blinked, backed down and returned Silent Bob to the floor. The bottle zipped away, zig-zagging between legs and feet. And quite a few Feegles joined the party, bearing bottles as good manners dictated.

"I've got to hand it to Maartie and Gretha." Barbarossa said, indicating the van Kruger parents. "Did a bloody good job raising Heidi. Fine young woman, the best, and I'm delighted to welcome her to my family. Not many women mad enough to marry a Smith-Rhodes, I have to say. Hard to find. Even more delighted to hand over the job to her of booting Danie up the guava when he needs it, and he _will_ , and I sincerely hope she doesn't wear out too many pairs of boots…"

There was laughter.

Mariella recognised the nudge in her ribs.

"Sproetjie? Who's _he_? He's _gorgeous_!"

She had looked round and recognised Horst Lensen. She winced.

"And he's looking at _you_ , Sproet!"

The girls of Twenty-Three were looking at her expectantly. She sighed and composed her face into a welcoming scowl.

"Hello, Mariella." Horst said, quietly.

"You'd better have a good reason for this, _jou bliksem_." she said.

Horst considered this.

"I do." he said, quietly. "You."

Mariella sighed. She decided to take this somewhere more private.

"Ok. Let's talk justnow."

She took his arm and steered him away. _We're both in uniform. We're both promoted to Candidate Officers. With luck anyone watching is just going to see two roofie officers discussing their postings. Damn, I hope we're not_ _ **both**_ _going to Stellenbosch…_

 _And elsewhere..._

Barbarossa and Agnetha Smith-Rhodes watched attentively as the tiny woman in Watch uniform, with an air of presence and dignity about her that made her look many times larger than her size seemed to allow, addressed them gravely.

"I have loved my time in this city." Kirstie said. I will be truly sad to leave. But my people gave me unprecedented freedom to go out into the world and live a different life. The condition was always that I should return to my folk and do what is expected of me. To settle down. To find a good man and begin a family."

Agnetha nodded and said she agreed with this and it comes to all of us. She just wished her oldest daughter had grasoed this much earlier.

"Indeed, mistress. This was deferred. Not set aside. And the time is near. I am minded that just before the birth of your grand-daughter Rebecka, one of my people visited your lands. He said the earth there has good bones. I have seen it for myself. I agree. I ask your leave, mr Barbarossa, mistress Agnetha, to bring part of my folk to your land. to found a Clan there. Among my people I have a reputation for thinking and acting differently, after all."

"Well, now." Barbarossa said. "My girl Johanna explained to me about your folk. I'm not opposed, you understand. I can see advantages. You live in burial mounds? We don't have any of those. But there are old caves and diggings in the side of a hill. The old natives, thousands of years ago, used them for burials and things. If you're willing, those can be yours. But there must be agreement. No theft of livestock. Johanna says farmers here allow your people the older sicker beasts. By agreement. We can do that. And you fight if attacked. We have been attacked. Will _your_ people fight alongside _mine_?"

"Aye, Mr Barbarossa. I can say, with absolute truth, my brothers love to fight."

"Then we're agreed, then."

He reached out a hand. Kirstie took it.

And now it is a little later in the evening. Family iconographs have been taken. Otto Chriek is sure they'll get into the papers and the sort of illustrated magazines that rejoice in these things. A sporting icon, a good-looking and famous Foot-The-Ball player and his pleasantly attractive blonde fiancée. From a famous family. Of course they'll make the papers and magazines like _**Wotcher**_ and _**Tepidity**_. An occasion graced by prominent people. Even Lord Downey himself has called by to wish the best to a rising star in the Guild. And…

Mariella recognised a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room. Conversations had become muted. People were edging away. she looked at Ponder Stibbons. He was in conversation with Eddie, the wizard from Home. Wizards knew if Death was about, didn't they? That had been her first association with the sudden change in atmosphere and temperature. But no, the wizards and witches seemed largely unworried.

She heard Horst say "Er. Mariella…"

And then the low pleasant voice from her right shoulder.

"Ah. Miss Smith-Rhodes."

She turned, slowly and unhurriedly, and saw the black skullcap and the goatee beard.

"My lord?" she asked, politely. She'd met Vetinari, once, briefly, at the Graduation Ball after the Final Run.

Vetinari extended a hand.

"Allow me to express sincere congratulations to you for your achievements over the last eighteen months or so." he said. "You are evidently a young lady to watch. You and Miss ben-Devorah both."

"Thank you, sir." Mariella said.

Vetinari regarded her gravely.

"Such a commendable turn out of friends. And family." he remarked. His languid arm-wave took in a lot of Smith-Rhodes family members.

"And such a remarkable family. I must speak to Lieutenant Romanoff concerning how your entire family appears to have arrived here at remarkably short notice. I'm almost certain I only authorised her to bring Mr de Kockamaainje here on official business."

Vetinari smiled a slight smile.

"Still, officers of the Pegasus Service have local discretion and latitude for independent action when operating a long way from home. And strictly speaking, none of you, including a large complement of trained soldiers, have actually _left_ Rimwards Howondaland. The Embassy premises constitute sovereign soil, after all. So there is nothing to officially concern me."

"Sir." Mariella said, politely.

Vetinari smiled again.

"I believe your National Service has over eighteen months left to run before your demobilisation. And you plan to serve with a specialised _kommando_ that performs interesting duties in interesting places. Well, early days, yet. Always assuming you do not sign up afterwards as a Regular officer. You will then be in search of interesting and well-remunerated work."

Vetinari scrutinised her again.

"And of course you'll then be free to let your hair grow back. I do not insist my employees, associates and contracted workers have military cuts."

Mariella looked at him, with no great surprise.

"Your older sister has, in the past, performed useful services for this City. I accept circumstances mean she is now temporarily retired from especially strenuous and active work. Happily, she is not the only Smith-Rhodes who has the training and the aptitude to work for the benefit of this City. I suspect your nieces, who were born here, will grow to be productive and useful citizens."

"Sir." Mariella said. Vetinari smiled, almost benevolently.

"You know, Miss Smith-Rhodes, an accepted function of an uncle is to show benevolence and favour to a nephew or a niece and to provide support, encouragement and where needed, practical direction, in the course of their lives. That is what the word "avuncular" means, after all. Happily for you, I am positively disposed towards you, and prepared to provide such guidance and support. Where it is called for. It's expected, after all. I will be in touch at the appropriate times."

He smiled again.

"Now, an occasion such as this is a happy one. I am here to offer sincere best wishes to your brother, and to the redoubtable Miss van Kruger. And to take the opportunity to socialise with the professional sportsmen, such impressively dedicated athletes, who add so much of value to this city. Do consider what I have said, Miss Smith-Rhodes."

"Yes sir. Thank you. Uncle Havelock." Mariella said.

Vetinari looked at her sharply. She wondered if she'd pushed it too far. Then he smiled.

"Indeed." he said, and moved on.

Johanna, who had been discreetly listening, smiled at her sister.

"You brought _that_ one on your own head." she remarked. "Drink?"

"Yes please." Mariella said.

Johanna smiled. "Coming, Horst?" she added. Then she reflected.

"You know, Vetinari said _professional_ sportsmen. As in people who actually get _paid_ for what they do. That's interesting. He chooses his words carefully. Like _value_. I wonder if Danie's worked it out yet?"

"He will." Mariella said. "Or if he doesn't. _Heidi_ will."

 _And elsewhere…_

Heidi van Kruger opened the large envelope from Home. Her parents, and Danie's parents, discreetly crowded in to watch. It was marked as having come from Jacarinthia House in Caarp Town. Julian Smith-Rhodes, who had brought the congratulations card from his father, stood back. He had a good idea of what was inside. His job was to smooth things over.

"Oh, _my_ …" Heidi said.

She turned over the big ornate banker's draft, made out to her and Danie.

"Thirty thousand dollars…"

"Father stresses there are no conditions or obligations on the gift." Julian said. He'd been here before. With Johanna. "He understands setting up home in Ankh-Morpork isn't cheap. And that sooner or later there are likely to be children. Errr…"

He noted Aunt Agnetha and Gretha van Kruger beamed happily. They'd been making common cause, and planning the wedding. Just to cross the t's and dot the i's. Children would be _expected_. It was best Heidi accepted this now.

"School fees and soforth." Julian said.

Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes patted Heidi's shoulder in a fatherly way.

"Well, _meisie_. You're in the Family now." he said. "No escape."

Agnetha Smith-Rhodes smiled contentedly.

"There's just Mariella to go, now." she remarked. Her husband grunted. He'd been watching the boy around Mariella. _And_ her reaction to him.

 _And elsewhere…_

Rivka ben-Devorah took a drink with Rikki Gold, the musician. She had been inobtrusively providing light music in the background and supervising the band. The two Cenotians were observing the evening and making common cause of their own. They found it interesting.

"Spent time in their country." Rivka said. "They're okay. Nice people. Mostly."

Rikki nodded.

"I'm prepared to accept there _is_ such a thing as a nice White Howondalandian." she said. "Surprising though it is."

"Despite the song." Rivka agreed. "The one you were advised to leave off the playlist for tonght." **(7)**

"Hope they've got one who can actually _sing_." she said. "It's coming up to that time in the gig. You know. There's always one who wants to get up and perform."

She shuddered. Cenotian shudders are expressive.

"And none of us speaks their language."

"Oh, I'm sure I can find you a singer." Rivka assured her. "A singer will not be a problem. At all."

They discussed mothers and Yentas. Each considered her drink in deep melancholy Cenotian gloom.

"I thought I'd _escaped_. Got to Ankh-Morpork. But she still writes." Rikki said.

"I had to cross a _continent_. And when I got to the other end, Yenta Goldberg was there. Waiting for me."

Rikki looked at Rivka with suddenly big, sympathetic, and sorrowful eyes.

"Yenta Goldberg. _Oi vey._ Mother's like that…"

Rivka ben-Devorah and Erica Goldberg, known for professional purposes as Rikki Gold because it sounded less Cenotian, made friends, united in adversity.

 _And finally…_

Barbarossa Smith-Rhodes walked onto the band-stage and called for silence. He got it.

"You know, when I was last at this Embassy for a party, Pieter van der Graaf called on me to get up and lead the singing because he thought I had the right sort of voice and the right sort of presence to do it." he said. "And Pieter, my good lady wife's brother, is a clever chap. He's not wrong. I can. And I'd be pleased to do it. Only…"

Barbarossa paused. He looked round at the pretty dark-haired pianist who seemed quietly resigned to an unpleasant paid duty.

"Out here tonight we've got a young lady who can sing a bit. Got herself into the papers for it, in fact. Got people in Cenotia geed up to fight a battle when she sung at them. It's only fitting that my daughter Mariella gets up here and sings the anthem. She's got to be used to it by now!"

And Mariella Smith-Rhodes, back in the city where it had all begun, stood in front of several hundred people, mainly Vondalaanders like herself, and led the singing. It had the solemn impact of a religious hymn. As always.

 _Kom boerekrygers wees nou helde,  
Die dag van rekenskap is hier!  
Die Vyand jaag nou oor ons velde,  
Staan jou man teen kanon se vuur!_

Pieter van der Graaf had helpfully provided a large banner, hung behind the stage with the words in both Vondalaans and Morporkian. As a final touch, adding a piece of memorable theatre, a large national flag descended at a pre-arranged signal, the orange, white and blue of their country. Mariella sang on, in front of several hundred people who were, by common consent, linking arms and joining in something that united them. This included a sizeable minority of foreign people, from other Foot-The-Ball sides: Llamedosians, who were adding a descant, through a cultural imperative of their own. Fourecksians. Foggy Islanders. And even Ruth N'Kweze, accepted here for the night. Well, Mariella thought, in a necessarily discreet and unacknowledged way, she was Family too. Even people like Alice Band and Madame Emmanuelle had been swept along by the occassion **(8)**. And. yes. Lord Vetinari. Although his lips weren't moving. He was observing, with a quiet half-smile on his face.

 _Morporkia wil ons volk verower,  
Belowe pyn en smart!  
Maar as jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
As jy skiet, skiet my deur,  
My Vondalaanderhart!_

 _I've come full circle,_ Mariella thought. _Back where it all started…._

It was fitting. The last footnote on the Great Adventure. Although she'd been talking to Rivka. About starting at the Hub. Going out through Hubsvensska, Swommi, Kashnkari, Far Überwald, and Aceria. Finishing with seafood in Genua. It was something to look forward to. For now, one chapter was over. A new one was beginning.

 _ **And that's it. The absolutely last word! For now.**_

* * *

 **(1)** Red face. Old Deer Park, London, is in fact the home ground of the London WELSH rugby union side. When they escape their current parlous financial situation, that is. London IRISH play, or rather played, at Sunbury (they're now, paradoxically, based in Reading which is not in London, but near enough to). London Scottish play at Richmond.

 **(2)** Mariella realised later, after about the third big drink, that there was no case to answer as a good defence lawyer at the hypothetical court martial could state they hadn't left Rimwards Howondaland at all. The Springboek Club was on the grounds of the Rimwards Howondalandian Embassy in Ankh-Morpork. By international law and convention an Embassy and the land on which it stands are the sacred inviolable soil of that country despite being, on the face of it, in Scoone Avenue in Ankh. Therefore, despite practically instantaneous travel over several thousand miles….

 **(3)** See _**Unseen Academicals**_ by Terry Pratchett. Johanna does not appear and is not alluded to. But given Ponder's sudden self-confidence, self-assertion and ability to read a political situation – as well as realising his strong position in the internal power structure of Unseen University – it's nice to speculate she was in the background, advising him, and putting Lady T'Malia's training in political reality to very good use.

 **(4)** To avoid allegations of speciesism, the LRFTBU had emphasised that other sentient races were welcome to form their own teams to play against each other and would be welcome and encouraged to do so. Troll sides found a certain affinity with the sport and had formed a fledgling League. They played with a very cheerful applied violence. And by the end of the night at the Springboek Club, Kafferpak, Langmar Blondeman and others could be seen coaching Feegles in how to form a scrum and planning out how a scaled-down playing field should look for players of four to five inches tall. Kirstie had been on hand to advise and to suggest that a Gonnagle should act as referee, with both authority and mousepipes, as opposed to a whistle.

 **(5)** to my tale _**Murder most 'Orrible.**_

 **(6)** See my story _**The Black Sheep**_.

 **(7)** Yes. _That_ song. One which South Africans endure through gritted teeth. Or get _emphatic_ about. Well, more emphatic than usual. And that's a lot of emphasis. For the bewildered or those who don't know the meme, youTube on "Spitting Image" and "South African Song", which is a slur dating from apartheid days and explres the utter impossibility, in a world full of wonders and strange and rare things (mermaids, a modest German, the existence of yetis, suntans in the Arctic, UFO encounters, an edible Pot Noodle, et c), of locating a nice and pleasant White South African. Apparently the narrator of the song drew a blank on that one.

 **(8)** "Remind me not to get into a fight with these people." Alice said to Emmanuelle. Her old friend smiled slightly.

"Assuredly, _chere amie_ ". she replied. "You are, I think, directly quoting the then Patrician at the end of the Boor War. When he had to conclude a peace treaty with them. On their terms."

Alice frowned.

"What's this one Mariella's leading now? something about an _Auntie Tina_? Judging by the hand gestures and all the laughing, it must be a funny song... oh. _That_ sort of funny."

 **Notes Dump:**

 **A limbo for ephemera, et c et c, bonus bits, Soul Cake Day Eggs and odd stray thoughts with no immediate relevance to the tale at hand, but which need to go down** _ **somewhere**_ **lest I forget.**

 **Yes. Yellow-highlighted advisory at the top of the page:** _This document contains text in Dutch (Netherlands) which isn't being proofed. You may be able to get proofing tools for this language._

 _And because it has to be done: a playlist of all music referenced. Not necessarily in order of any kind. All available on YouTube_

 _"Vondalaander" song is based on these South African tunes and anthems:_

 **Serious:**

 _Bok van Blerk: **Afrikaanerhart. De La Rey.** _

_Bok van Blerk and Robbie Wessels: **Ons Vir Jou, Suid-Afrika**_

 _ **Die Stem van Suid Afrika:** the pre-1994 national anthem. Still has limited recognition today. _

**General and light-hearted:**

 _Ampie: **Plain Jane**_

 _Bok van Blerk: **Tannie Tina van Wyk** ( the "Auntie Tina" song) _

Robbie Wessels and band: _ **the "Leeulope" song; die Coach Se Speech Snorre ( the "Bokkie moet nie worry..." chant)**_

 _ **Afrikaans: kom sing saam (Jacques de Koning) -** a collection of Afrikaans songs of the sort you sing to children or from which learners of Afrikaans might benefit - rhythms, cadencies, repetitions, et c. (Trying to visualise Afrikaaner Teletubbies...). In their way, also ear-worms. Duitswes is lekker, Duitswes is goed...  
_

 **U** **tterly slanderous and scurillous:**

 _Spitting Image, **I've Never Met A Nice South African (And that's Not Bloody Surprising, Man)**_

 _ **Oh. And the South African childrens' TV show "Liewe Heksie" (The Little Witch) is available on YouTube too. This makes me very happy.**_


End file.
